Temptation
by RavenWolf3
Summary: The weight of the Ring is heavy, and Frodo yearns to give in to temptation. Aragorn/Frodo SLASH *WARNING! Chapter 9 is very hard R rating*
1. Default Chapter

Temptation  
  
By RavenWolf  
  
Rated: Starting with an R. It may become NC-17 in later parts, in which case I'll have to move it to the Nindaiwe archive. But I'll let you know. Disclaimer: Yes. I am J.R.R. Tolkein. That's why I'm writing fanfiction instead of books. I sincerely hope you realize that I'm kidding. Summary: The weight of the Ring is heavy, and Frodo yearns to give in to temptation. A/N: I honestly have no idea where this came from. I was listening to music, and then bam! Instant fic. There's a lot of Frodo angst in here, though in later chapters, it'll probably lighten up.  
  
I pace back and forth. Though it is my watch, my senses have turned inwards, and I feel as though I have withdrawn from myself.  
  
I hear Aragorn's footsteps up behind me. I don't halt my movement, nor even slow it. He stands at the edge of my perception, and it would be too hard to halt in my rhythm and speak to him. I might not get it back.  
  
I dare not stop moving. For if I do, I may be overcome with the hopelessness, the despair. I would like to claim that it is the Ring that drives me to such depths, but I know in my heart that it is not. It would be easier to hold at bay then. If it were artificial. But I feel this in my bones, in my heart, in my very soul. I am weary. So easy would it be to leave the Ring, to bury it in a hole and begin the long trek home. And yet so very hard.  
  
Still I pace, and Aragorn takes a seat on a large boulder. He's waiting for me. Well, he will be in for a long wait. I must keep moving. Always moving, because if I stop, the temptation to give in to my own darker side would overwhelm me, and I would not be able to get up again.  
  
"Frodo," he says, and I do not notice him. Aragorn is temptation. I cannot give in. I must be strong. I am the Ringbearer. I cannot afford to be weak.  
  
"Frodo," he says louder.  
  
I halt my movement. My back is to him, and I can only imagine what his facial expression must be. "Yes, Aragorn?"  
  
"You can sleep now. Your watch is over." I do not move. I can sense that he's turned away from me, and is taking up his duty, leaving me to my own devices.  
  
A moment later, I sit beside him on the boulder. I can feel myself crumbling, little by little. And this is just another example. He looks at me briefly, before returning his gaze to the stars.  
  
A cloud drifts by. It smothers a few stars, and its edge is outlined by a hazy silver light. Only at its center does it remain darkened. I sigh. There is a euphemism there somewhere, but I am too tired to see it. All my energy has gone to keeping myself upbeat, and to driving my thoughts away from the ever present gloom that threatens to drag me down.  
  
A glance at Aragorn shows me that he is watching. He does not look away, and our eyes meet. Without a word spoken, I lean into him. Gently, he wraps his cloak around me, presumably to keep me warm. But now, I am so close to him, that a childish desire overcomes me. I pretend that I am part of him, that I am no longer a lone hobbit, struggling with a dark and impossible fate, but a part of Aragorn. With his help, I know I can do anything.  
  
His arm wraps around me, and one might assume that we were lovers, staring at the stars together. How far from the truth. He is looking for signs of danger, and I am fighting off exhaustion and the ironically simple little trinket around my neck.  
  
I no longer question why the Ring came to me. All I know is that it has, and that though I may have companions on my journey, I am utterly alone.  
  
I press myself closer to Aragorn. The illusion is waning, and I cling to it as only I could. I, who was always lost in a book, wishing myself in another land. I, who have now discovered that nothing is ever as pretty or as good as it seems. The world is wrapped in pretty lace, but it doesn't take much to shred the delicate covering.  
  
Aragorn is warm and smells like leather and earth. It's a good smell, natural and comforting. It's as if Aragorn himself is a part of the world around him, in communion with nature. The feel is reminiscent of that the elves give off. Beautiful and otherworldly. Not to mention completely untouchable. Legolas can stand mere inches from me, and yet be so far above and beyond me that I am baffled by the distance.  
  
Sometimes I dislike the elves. I, as a hobbit, am considered one of the most feeble race. And being around the elves only heightens the sense of inadequacy. I cannot even defend myself.  
  
For whatever reason, Aragorn does not give me that feeling. Though he reminds me of the elves, he is not one of them. His beauty is marred by the darkness I see reflected in his eyes. I briefly wonder what he would look like without the veil of suffering across his eyes, and then dismiss it as foolishness. I can no more take away his suffering than he could take away mine. For a time maybe, but now I am always aware of the Ring, and I fear that I ever will be.  
  
As if sensing my thoughts, he looks down at me. Of course, his eyes fall upon the top of my head. I am a hobbit, not a Man, and we will never be equal.  
  
I wonder if he realizes that he is stroking my hair. It is comforting in a way I hadn't thought possible, so I do not tell him, for fear of him stopping.  
  
I look up at his face, and it is so full of affection that I am taken aback. He must have been aware of his actions, for he has ceased stroking my hair, and his hand now cups my face. Tension is building slowly, in a delicious sweet tightening in my heart and groin. I know without looking that he feels it too. How could he not?  
  
He simply stares at me for a moment, and I no longer even know what I am feeling. Something must happen soon, or the tension of the moment must break me.  
  
And something does happen. Gently and slowly, oh so slowly, he leans down and captures my small mouth in a sweet and lingering kiss. It sends thrills down my spine, racing to all parts of my body and making me tingle with a wonderful prickling of the senses. I have a taste now, to go along with his comforting scent.  
  
His mouth is so big compared to mine, that I worry that he will find me lacking. I am a mere hobbit, and there is no comparing me to a Man. I feel my failings more sharply when confronted with his blatant strength and confidence. And his sheer *size*.  
  
And then he has pulled back, and for a moment I fear that he will look away and continue watching the stars. As if nothing had ever happened. I feel myself crumble a bit more, and I know that I am leaving myself all the more vulnerable for accepting his small comfort. And I know that before much longer, I will not have the strength to pull myself back together and continue on this long, miserable journey.  
  
But he does not, and I hope my relief does not show too clearly on my face. I know that I am dependent on him, but to bare myself so totally for his inspection goes against everthing I've learned since leaving the Shire.  
  
He strokes my face with his thumb. It is calloused and rough, and I feel each texture acutely against the soft skin of my face. His taste still lingers in my mouth. I try to memorize it, but I know that soon it will be gone. And I suspect that the kiss will soon follow. Aragorn has bound himself to Arwen. A male hobbit has no place in his life, nor his future.  
  
I look away from him, unable to bear the loathesome sight any more. The caring eyes and the rugged yet soft face. He is my friend. My protector. And though I do not know exactly where he is going with this, I know it would be folly to allow myself to be strung along with it.  
  
"Frodo," he says softly, barely disturbing the silence that is hung around us like a silver blanket.  
  
"No," I say, and my voice seems to echo hollowly, as though the emptiness with which I've spoken has been filled in with my real desire.  
  
"Alright," he replies, somehow knowing what I've meant. He turns away from me, and his profile is outlined in the moonlight majestically. He is a king, and I am a lonely hobbit, destined to die on my quest for the destruction of the small Ring around my neck.  
  
I sigh and return to my bedroll by the darkened fire. To the comforting familiarity of Sam and Merry and Pippin. Hobbits, like me. Not beautiful, no. But familiar. And reachable. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A/N 2: So, what did you think? I've started work on a second chapter. Let me know if you think I should post it. And ideas are welcome, though I can't promise I'll use them. 


	2. Chapter 2

I don't remember what day it is anymore. It's always the same, always toiling up the mountains and across the plains, trying to pretend that I'm not fatigued to the point of collapse. The others seem to be fine, and I will not drag them down with my weakness.  
  
I know without a shadow of a doubt that it's the Ring. It weighs in my mind far more heavily than it does around my neck. I'm physically and mentally exhausted from fighting its pull, day after day and night after night. For even as we're resting around the fire we've lit, and the others are falling asleep, I am not allowed even that small measure of peace. The Ring is always calling to me, goading and taunting me, and to rest and let down my guard would be to give in to it. And if that happens, all is lost.  
  
Aragorn is behind me. I can feel his eyes on my back. We haven't spoken more than necessary after that night. But sometimes I wake from my nightmares to find him staring at me. As soon as our eyes meet, though, he turns away. I wish he wouldn't. The knowledge that he is watching over me helps to soothe the nightmares of nameless dark shapes clawing at my neck for the Ring.  
  
I stumble a bit, too lost in my own thoughts to pay attention to where I'm going. As soon as my footing is lost, Aragorn's hands appear around my waist, as if by magic, steadying me, protecting me.  
  
I turn to thank him for preventing my fall, and I immediately drawn in by the piercing eyes. My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, I forget what I am going to say. I forget everything except those eyes. Clear blue with darker veins of color flecks in them. So rich with feeling.  
  
His hands have still not moved from my waist. I know that much. And it seems as if there is to be another kiss like the one shared a few nights ago. I want it, with my whole body, but some part of me says no. I don't know which part. I don't even know if it's the Ring or not. But Aragorn is temptation, and if I've learned anything, temptation is what the Ring uses above all to deceive.  
  
But I am saved from the agony of having to turn away by Boromir, of all people. "Aragorn, Frodo. We must keep going. " He is stopped above us, and Aragorn quickly straightens. I understand. If I were him, I would not want to be seen in such a position with the likes of me.  
  
I back away as quietly as possible, and turn to be on my way. I don't give him the chance to get a hold of me again until we make camp for lunch.  
  
***  
  
Boromir is giving Merry and Pippin sword lessons. I can see how much my cousins like the Gondorian. I can also see Aragorn, smoking his pipe on the sidelines and giving advice. I make sure to place myself within his perception. This ignoring each other is getting old fast.  
  
Sam comes to sit beside me, and I almost wish he had not. Sam's so sweet and gentle. And I know that he has a crush on me, which makes it hard to face him without cringing. Because I am becoming more and more certain that my heart belongs to another. Whether it is the Ring's doing or not, I cannot tell.  
  
Legolas has spotted something in the east. Everyone halts in their motions to look at this 'cloud'. Even Boromir, Pippin and Merry stop their antics to peer up at the strange dark shape that is moving towards us.  
  
Almost before I can hear the words, Aragorn is calling to us to hide. The fire is stamped out quickly with tough hobbit feet, and packs are gathered. I dive under a rock, and a moment later, Aragorn's back is pressed to my front. Even now he is protecting me in any way he can.  
  
My breath catches in my throat as certain portions of me are pressed up against certain portions of him. His eyes are trained on the sky above, watching the spies of Saruman as they pass around us.  
  
I'm ashamed that at such a perilous moment, all I can think about is the lean strength of the ranger body protecting me. I want to be protected almost as much as I loathe it. Because to need protecting must mean that one is helpless.  
  
Soon enough, they pass, and the others ease out of their hiding spots. Aragorn stays pressed against me for a minute more, before getting up without saying a word.  
  
I want to kick something in frustration. That is the longest he has been close to me in days. Something must soon give, or I will. Give, that is. The Ring's temptation is always there, and when I feel anything strongly, its power seems to increase.  
  
"We will go over Caradhras," Gandalf proclaims. My gaze is drawn towards the high, snowy peaks piercing the cold blue sky.  
  
***  
  
That night, the meal is tense. Everyone is waiting for an attack of some sort. Some sign that we were spotted. I sigh heavily, but not, I like to think, over-dramatically.  
  
Aragorn looks my way, and for a moment I think that maybe our tense standoff has ended. But he looks away, and I fight the urge to sigh again, this time in frustration.  
  
After dinner, most of the fellowship take to their bedrolls. Aragorn takes first watch. After debating with myself for a moment, I follow him to the edge of the clearing where we're camped.  
  
He's seated with his back to the tree, gazing outwards into the thick blackness that spans the distance between the shadowy trees.  
  
Without a word, I sit beside him and look at him pointedly. Letting him know that I will not be ignored any longer. For the first time, it occurs to me that I might have hurt him with my brusque dismissal the other night. Not likely, but it bears some consideration.  
  
Finally, he takes notice of me. "Yes, Frodo?" He asks innocently, his voice tinted with a slight concern. It merely stokes the fires of indignation that are rapidly growing in my belly. I know not why.  
  
He's looking straight at me now, his pretty eyes once again casting a spell. But he doesn't lean in to kiss me like he did before. He merely watches me, waiting for my answer.  
  
Enough is enough. "Stop it, Aragorn." I snap. He blinks and pulls back slightly in surprise.  
  
"I'm sorry, but stop what, Frodo?" Perfectly polite, and he is driving me to the brink of madness. If the Ring hasn't brought me there already.  
  
"Stop pretending that nothing has happened. Stop pretending that I'm not even here." I bite my tongue to halt the torent of words before I get into dangerous territory. Whatever Aragorn feels for me-lust, caring, friendship- it is not what I think I feel for him, and for him to know that would destroy everything.  
  
He doesn't speak. I don't think he knows what to say. I wouldn't, were I in his position. Then, surprisingly, he cups my face in his hand, reminiscent of the way he had before. He leans close, so that our noses almost touch. I fight the urge to pull back, because he is almost frightening in his intensity.  
  
"Is that what you really want, Frodo?" He hisses dangerously. "Consider it carefully. Do you really want to know what I feel for you? Because if you do, know that it will change everything."  
  
His words cast a shadow of doubt over feelings that I had thought were clear. I'm tempted to return to my bedroll and shut my eyes against these changes. I won't, though, because that is just another form of temptation. I've become very good at recognizing it in its many shapes and packages.  
  
I hold firm. "Everything has already changed," I say, and am proud that my voice does not shake or quiver with uncertainty like it did in my head.  
  
His answer is a bruising kiss. A sharp intake of breath, and then I'm responding. My hands come to rest on his back. And slowly, I relax into the kiss, letting him take complete control. It feels good to let go, even just that little bit. The kiss softens, his lips caressing now, instead of crushing. My eyes slip close and a soft moan escapes me.  
  
There is a soft, wet sound as his lips disengage from mine, and he looks at me again. "There, Frodo. Now you know the truth. You can return to your bedroll now." And he turns away.  
  
"So that's it?" I say softly, mostly to myself, touching my lips.  
  
But he hears, and speaks again. "Frodo, I care about you. Very much. And that is why this cannot proceed." He turns away, as if he expects me to just leave now.  
  
"That is no answer." I say bitterly, accusingly. I know that I shouldn't be so rude, but frankly, I'm disappointed. I had hoped that things would be revealed at long last. But instead I got a repeat of the other night which, while pleasant, merely evoked a sense of deja vu.  
  
"Frodo," he says, shaking his head as if speaking to a child. This angers me to an infinite degree. I *hate* being treated as a child because of my size. I realize that I am not as tall as him. I realize that he thinks that because he can look down on me, I am less than his equal. Well, I am tired of it. I will drop this thing. I will swallow this feeling, as hard as it may be, and I will leave Aragorn to his misconceptions and ignorance.  
  
"Goodnight, Aragorn," I say, not waiting for him to finish his sentence. "I will see you tomorrow morning." I stand and walk away, refusing to look back. 


	3. Chapter 3

Depression has taken on new meaning for me. I never imagined that something like this would happen to me, Frodo Baggins of Bag End. But it has. And I cannot imagine anything being harder.  
  
I am not actually speaking of the Ring, though that in itself is agonizing. I am speaking of my infatuation with Aragorn. I thought that I could let go, simply will my feelings away. But apparently not. This....crush, I shall call it, rears its head everytime his eyes meet mine. I can't seem to control myself.  
  
The snow of Caradhras does not feel cold to my feet. At least, not much. Hobbit feet are tough things, and mine are no different. But ice has gathered on my lashes and snow in my hair. I am cold all over, and the snow and ice that touches my skin melts into cold water and dampens my skin, causing me to shiver in the icy wind.  
  
I have fallen to the back of the group, so tired am I. Aragorn, as always, walks behind me. It is a sunny day, but the sun seems somehow cold and thin in the vibrant sapphire sky. The rays of its light do nothing to warm me.  
  
But I endure, climbing the ridge after Boromir, struggling to lift each foot out of the icy snow that clutches at it, making each step a difficulty.  
  
When I fall, Aragorn is there to catch me. The first thing I feel is the lack of the Ring. My hand frantically reaches inside my shirt of its own accord, searching for the chain that secures the Ring around my neck. It's gone.  
  
Its chain reflects the sun as a dull gold where it lies against the snow. It lies next to Boromir, and I can feel it trying to abandon me. Its powers are like acid, corroding the hearts of even the strongest. And Boromir is no exception.  
  
He lifts it by its chain, his eyes always fixated on its dull sheen.  
  
"Boromir," Aragorn, my protector as always.  
  
"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing." It is drawing him in, tempting him. And even as I watch this, a small part of me is jealous. It screams, 'Give me back what is mine!' And it reminds me sharply of Gollum. If I give in to that voice, then I will become him.  
  
"Boromir. Give Frodo the Ring." One of his hands lies unobtrusively on my shoulder. But I feel its loss greatly when it reaches for his sword.  
  
"As you wish. I care not." Boromir holds the Ring at a distance from his body. And through his bravado, I can see the paling of his face. He knows as well as I how close it came to seducing him. I snatch it from him quickly, as much out of my need for it as for my fear of his falling to it.  
  
I almost chuckle when I place the Ring back around my neck. I can feel it raging that its plans have been foiled. So there. It can't get rid of me that easily.  
  
***  
  
Winds whip at us for all directions, and for once, my short stature is of an advantage against the howling wind. I don't have it as hard as Boromir, Aragorn and Gandalf. Legolas, however, seems entirely untroubled by it, bounding across the snow as he is.  
  
Legolas' keen elf ears pick up something. "There is a fell voice on the wind!" He shouts to be heard. Snow swirls at us from all angles, and I am no longer sure which way is which.  
  
"It's Saruman!" Gandalf calls back. He begins chanting, and then fear clutches at my heart, and I press into Aragorn as a large amount of snow and rocks break loose and come tumbling down the mountain towards us.  
  
I think in that moment that I am going to die. I will be swept off the mountain as easily as a speck of dust and I will be powerless as I fall, looking up at the others.  
  
It is even more frightening when I am buried under the mountains of icy snow. It is everywhere, and I cannot breathe. Only the steady proximity of Aragorn calms me. He still has not left my side, despite the small avalanche Saruman has brought on us.  
  
Relief washes over me in waves when my hand breaks the icy crust. "We must go back!" Aragorn says.  
  
They argue for a few moments about the road we are to take, and then, courtesy of Gandalf, the weight of the decision comes to rest on me. "We will go through the mines of Moria," I say, without much hesitation. I have no desire to see the Gap of Rohan or pass any closer to Mordor than necessary. I know that eventually it will be inevitable, but I will delay that particular horror as long as I can.  
  
Gandalf looks defeated, like I have made the wrong choice. I wish I had not decided on Moria, despite Gimli's enthusiasm. Because the look on Gandalf's face tells me that there is more to Moria than what I have been told.  
  
***  
  
We're back-tracking now. It's rather unpleasant to know that all the hard work of climbing this forsaken mountain was for nothing, and has now the added exertion of getting back down.  
  
I wish I knew why Aragorn doesn't want me. Even thinking that to myself sounds rather egotistical. Like I can't understand why he wouldn't want me. He is sending me so many mixed signals, I hardly even know which way is up anymore. I simply don't understand, and I am sensing that it would be folly to approach him now.  
  
It's his watch, but I do not sleep. Instead, I am watching him watching me. He thinks I am asleep, but I have slitted my eyelids to make them appear closed. And this is how I can observe the lustful way that his eyes fixate on me. Alone, with no one to watch, or at least, not that he knows of, his emotions show easily on his face.  
  
What I see there only confuses me more. There is affection in those eyes, and longing. Want, for certain. And dismay. I wish I knew what he was thinking.  
  
After a time, my body betrays me, and I fall asleep for real, with Aragorn being the last thing I see before sleep takes me.  
  
***  
  
Moria. Dark and fearful. I wish I had never chosen this route. The darkness is infecting me, because it is not that of the clear, clean night, where there are no walls or fences to bind us. No, here the darkness is filled with the smell of stale air, and the walls are a presence all around us. In the dark, it almost seems as if they are closing in on us.  
  
I am not the only one shaken by this lightless existance. The others feel it too, especially Legolas. Merry and Pippin often sit up long after Gandalf has extinguished the light from his staff. And I sometimes see Aragorn or Boromir sitting on a rock and staring out into the darkness when we take breaks. They are worried, as am I, that something else is caged in here with us, and we've got no place to run to.  
  
At times like this, I wonder what would happen if something were to strike me down in the darkness, and I should not survive this day. Or the next. When left alone with nothing but my thoughts, they often turn to paranoia and morbidity. 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I apologize for the long period without posting. I've had a bit of writer's block, and have been obligated in other fandoms. Not to mention school. But anyways, here's chapter four. To avoid confusion, I'll tell you now that this is Aragorn's POV. Like you wouldn't have guessed that in the first sentence.

I hope to update more frequently from now on. I've already started chapter five. :) Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~

I look over at Frodo. The small hobbit is gasping for air as though he cannot breathe. I feel sympathy for him, as I myself find the dark confinements of the mine more than a little disconcerting. 

Without thinking, I place my hand on his shoulder to steady him. His eyes snap open, and a myriad of emotions flicker across the open and delicate face. Heat rushes through me, and I pull away my hand. It would be a bad idea to encourage the feelings I have for him any further. Our fates are very different, and I have pledged myself to Arwen.

I wish that I had not. The small creature before me, so full of strength, evokes powerful feelings that I have never felt before. Something akin to them, yes. I love Arwen, but the love I feel for her doesn't compare to this flame that Frodo has stirred in me. My heart swells to behold him, even now, as his face is filled with distrust towards me.

No wonder that he is angry with me. I should not have done those things to him. He likes me, I know. But my feelings are dangerous in their intensity, and he should not be exposed to them. He should stick with Sam, the faithful and gentle hobbit who loves him simply and with abandon. Sam could give him what I could not. Stability, familiarity, even something so practical as *size*. A man and a hobbit are not the perfect match.

But my heart seems not to have gotten the message. I can still feel the rage and fear I felt when I heard him call out my name in despair. Those many nights ago, when we first entered Moria, and the thing in the lake tried to take him. It was only through luck that he was saved.

When he screamed my name, the only thing on my mind was that he was looking to me to protect him. And I could not fail him. Thankfully, the others were there, or my word would not have been honored, and Frodo would have perished in the maw of that creature.

The thought chills me, and I wrap my blankets more tightly around myself, though this chill comes from within. Even now, as I watch the little one sleep, even as my heat expands with joy at the sight of his beautiful visage, I see Arwen's sculpted cheekbones and beautiful features. She plagues me. I am constantly reminding myself that she cannot actually read my thoughts, and will not appear suddenly, heart-broken and sad.

She gave up her immortality for me. I cannot forsake her.

But at the same time, I cannot seem to stop wanting and caring for Frodo. Such a large burden he carries, but without complaint. One cannot help but be intrigued by the strength enclosed in such a small package.

***

I have seen many things as a ranger, but fear causes my hands to tremble and my will to falter when I hear the coming of it. The cavern shakes and the stones fall. 

Gandalf fears this creature. And it would be wise of me to take after his example. 

But the stairway is tall and trecherous. I hestitate, and look to Gandalf. "Lead them on, Aragorn!"

It takes but a moment for my decision to be made, and by then, I'm already following the rest of them down the narrow stairs.

Orcs are extraordinarily bad shots. Arrows bounce off the stairway all around us, but not one of us is hit. As always, one eye is on Frodo. As the rest of us, he is terrified at the prospect of crossing this gap in the path. And it must be his fear that drives him to stay towards the back of the group, even as Boromir takes Merry and Pippin, and Gimli jumps.

He has no choice but to go now. We exchange a brief glance, and I see the fear as a palpable thing behind the crystal blue eyes. But he nods slowly, and again I marvel at the strength and courage in this being. 

But our attention is drawn away from the gap when the thing draws nearer, and the archway collapses further, sending bits of stone crashing down around us. Without thinking, I draw Frodo close to me to protect him from them.

When they stop momentarily, I can see that more of the stair has fallen. And our section is beginning to crumble and fall. Frodo looks up at me again, and the fear has darkened his eyes.

"Lean forwards," I instruct, as coolly as someone in my position possibly could. He does as I say, and as I predicted, the pillar of stone comes to rest against the other, where the rest of the fellowship waits for us.

Quickly I get him across, and then I myself follow. I do not watch as the pillar falls away into the black nothingness, for we are already on our way, running.

***

I have never heard such agony in a cry. My heart feels numb at the prospect of Gandalf's death, but I am their leader, and I cannot give in to grief now.

But Frodo, Frodo is mindless with it. His scream bounces off the walls and echoes infinitely. I don't know what he would have done if Boromir had not restrained him. He was straining towards the bridge, almost as if he meant to jump after Gandalf.

And then, the unthinkable happens. One of the orc's arrows, presumably dipped in poison, pierces Frodo's breast. He jerks back suddenly in surprise, before falling to the ground. 

My heart clenches in fear now, for he is not moving. I do not know what I will do if he is dead. I do not. And I don't care to think about it, because there is no way that Frodo is dead. It cannot be.

Nevertheless, my stomach churns and nausea rises in my throat as I rush back to him, heedless of the arrows that bounce into the walls around me. We've just lost Gandalf. We cannot lose Frodo. We cannot.

I bend next to him, and his eyes fixate on me as he tries to rise. "Let go of me!" he whispers harshly, angrily. I wonder if he even realizes that he's been shot. But at least he's alive.

There is no time to pay heed to his comfort. I scoop him up hastily in my arms, and run as fast as I can, trying not to jostle him too much. 

He lets out a harsh cry, half-moan, half-scream, and it chills me to the bone. 

***

I lay him down roughly on the rocks outside. Immediately, the other hobbits swarm around me, trying to get close to their wounded and asking if he's okay.

I feel an irrational anger well up in me, and I believe it has something to do with the panic that is also growing in my heart. Frodo's face is pale and sweaty, and he's bleeding heavily and freely. I worry that this is beyond me, and that Frodo will die. And even as irrational as it is, the thought disrupts my others, and adds a color of fear and self-doubt to my movements.

I close my eyes briefly, to focus on what needs to be done now. Frodo needs immediate attention, but at the same time, I know we must get out of these hills before nightfall. Tears are coming to everyone now, at Gandalf's recent demise and Frodo's current state. I force myself to become numb to all around me. I cannot function if I allow myself to feel. Tears can come later, when I'm alone and everyone is safe.

"Legolas, get them up." Even to my own ears, my voice sounds harsh. Legolas looks at me quietly for a moment, as though reading my every thought, before turning to Boromir, who has strayed a bit away from the group. 

I return to my charge, knowing that Legolas will take care of everything. I trust him. 

I look at Frodo, trying my best to coolly assess his condition and the best way to move him. But at all costs, I avoid looking into his eyes. They're still wide open, and I can feel them searching my face for answers I do not have. If I let myself see those eyes, then I will lose my delightful numbness, and Frodo may die for my own feelings of inadequacy.

Finally, I just bite my lip and lift him up as carefully as I can. He gives out a shout of pain, and it threatens to cut past my defenses. I force myself to ignore it the best I can, and begin to start away, not waiting for the others. They will follow shortly.

***

That night, few of the fellowship rest, though all are weary. I am too busy tending to Frodo, to heed the call of sleep, and the others are too shaken up by Gandalf's death. And even if they weren't, Frodo's occasional cries of deep, animal pain would render them unable to rest. 

I am doing the best I can, but the poison is still working its way through his system. I turn helplessly to Legolas. It is hard for me to admit my failings, but for Frodo, I will swallow my pride. "Legolas. I have no knowledge of the poison that has been used. Perhaps you could help?" The blonde elf inclines his head slightly, and goes to speak to the hobbits for a moment.

I cannot hear what is said, because though I may be a ranger, I am no elf. But the hobbits nod their heads frantically and head off quickly into the woods in all directions.

Legolas returns to me, and whispers briefly in my ear. "I have sent them to find some barak flowers. They will help to slow the poisoning, though they will also put him to sleep." Legolas stands from his crouch and heads into the woods as well, presumably to aid in the search.

My eyes return to Frodo's face. He's panting now. Why didn't I think of the barak flower? It is a well-known remedy. Perhaps I have not detached myself as much as I had thought. 

Frodo's so pale. His face has a beautiful, but unhealthy cast to it, and his skin is pearly white and shines in the light of the setting sun with a sheen of sweat to it.

"Strider...." he moans. I listen attentively. "Strider....hurts..." I place my hand gently on his brow. His skin feels hot to the touch. I gently wipe away some of the sweat that is threatening to drip into his eyes. 

I lean closer. "I know, Frodo. I know." I can't help myself. I kiss him gently on the forehead. His eyes roll up in his head for a moment before the lids close. He is not asleep though, because his breathing, if anything, has increased in its rapidity.

"Hang on, little one." Again, I press my lips to the smooth skin of his forehead. And then I curse myself as I wish for different circumstances and a kiss not quite so platonic. I had decided not to let my thoughts wander here.

But apparently, my mind sees it fit now to wander where it wants. And, for just a moment, I allow it the freedom to do as it pleases. Which invariably leads back to the small hobbit that lies now in my sole care. In my fantasy, he is healthy again, and the Ring is gone. There is no reason for worry, and Arwen has gone away. Frodo lies sprawled happily across my chest, his breath and mine mingling. His height means that he lies solely on my torso.

He sprinkles butterfly kisses on my face, around my mouth, and when he finally does reach my lips, I am ready for him, and capture his pretty pink lips in mine, tasting again his essence. After a moment, he pulls away, laughing softly like the tinkling of silver bells. Just the imagining of a sound that I have only heard once, briefly, is enough to make my cock harden in my breeches.

And then, in the real world, Frodo coughs, and I am snapped back to reality with an ache in my groin. What fool am I, that I would indulge myself at such a moment. Frodo is in danger. Frodo is dying. And I cannot think of anything I can do to save him.

Panic threatens to close in when I hear him gasping for air. I lift his head carefully, gently, so as not to jostle his wound too grieviously, but he hisses in pain all the same. But. Better he have air than avoid the slight pain of an arrow wound.

Cradling his head on my lap, I return to the ever present problem. How am I to stop this? The arrow hit close to his heart, so the poison is spreading fast. Legolas and the hobbits are still not back, and I can almost feel the poison spreading its black death throughout his tiny body.

I stroke his cheek with my thumb. He smiles just the tiniest bit. 

A moment later, one of the hobbits comes crashing through the underbrush. I know it is one of the hobbits, because Legolas *never* 'crashes'.

By the time Sam gets there, I am holding Frodo in my arms and waiting impatiently. In his hand he holds a crush of the barak flowers in his small hand. Without waiting to be courteous, I snatch them away from him, tearing a small piece and giving it to Frodo. "Here," I say softly. He tries to sit up farther, but seems to be too tired to do so.

I give him the flower anyways, and hope he does not choke. Thankfully, he swallows, and I lay his head back on the fold of blankets.

"Is he going to be okay?" Sam asks anxiously. I am apalled to find myself jealous of the small hobbit and his relationship with Frodo. They trust each other implicitly. In a relationship, there would be no issues with size. Frodo cares deeply for Sam, and nothing will ever change that. And Sam is utterly devoted to Frodo. How can I possibly hope to get in the middle of that?

Frodo makes a soft little snorting sound, and my attention is immediately drawn to him. His eyes roll up into his head, and he falls quietly. I quickly check his pulse. I hadn't known that the barak flowers would work so effectively and so quickly.

But his lips are turning a pale blue, the color that every healer knows. He's not breathing. "Frodo?" My voice is laid thick with worry. "Frodo?!?" I hiss. He's still not breathing. I gave him too much. I gave him too much, and now he's going to die. No.

I'm panicking. I know it. But I can't stop it. Frodo isn't breathing. It's all well and good to deny my feelings, but FRODO ISN'T BREATHING. 

My hands are skittering about, touching quickly and briefly his chest his body, my body. Like birds not knowing where to rest. Or butterflies.

"Strider! Strider, why are his lips turning blue? Strider..."

"Be quiet, Sam!" The noise is distracting me. Everything is distracting me. The fact that Frodo is still not breathing distracts me. Think. I know what to do. I know what to do. But what is that? Why can't I remember?

And then it comes to me, clear as a bell. The answer steadies my own breathing, reassures my hands. I know what to do. I pinch his nose with my fingers and lean in to press my mouth against his. Like a kiss, but so much more. Life is borne upon this gesture. In and out. In and out. I must be careful; his lungs are so much smaller than mine. I could kill him while attempting to save him.

And then there it is. I can feel him breathing on his own. I want to collapse with relief and sing with joy, but he is still in peril yet, and besides, I am too tired to sing and too busy to collapse.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Temptation (5/?)

By: RavenWolf

Rated: R for now.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Pairing: A/F, implied S/F and in later parts B/L. You wanted interspecies, you got it.

Summary: The weight of the Ring is heavy, and Frodo yearns to give in to temptation.

A/N: Frodo's POV again. 

~~~~

I am sure that I am dreaming. Aragorn is kissing me. He is kissing me and stroking my face. The pain I feel seems trivial and far away, and I am ashamed that I am still thinking about it with his lips on mine. Pain has no place at a time like this.

I take in a breath, but when I let it out, Aragorn isn't kissing me anymore. And we're not in a meadow in the Shire. We're here, in the forest. It's night, and the pain isn't trivial at all anymore. It's a thousand fiery needles consuming me from within. It's a burning and blackening death that is spreading through my veins and destroying them slowly. I want to scream, but it hurts too much.

But then, I am aware of Aragorn again. His hands are gentle on my skin, though their physical presence causes pain. But the knowledge that he is touching me and meaning to comfort soothes me somewhat. 

He's speaking. I can't hear him, of course, but he's speaking all the same. I think somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know I should be listening to him, that what he says is important, but maybe it's not what he says but that he is saying it.

And then he pulls away my cloak, and undoes my vest. I still wear the mithril coat, though I don't understand how the arrow could have pierced it. 

But then I see. The last layer of clothing peels away and exposes my wound to the wind. Despite my previous lack of energy, I find it in me now to arch myself off of the ground and give a long scream of pain. It hurts so *much*.

I want to bite his hand when he puts it over my mouth. Though in my head I know that there is a logical reason for remaining quiet, my body does not see it that way. I struggle, squirming as if to escape him. The pain is so intense that I feel that the only way to ease it would be to crawl out of my skin. And in these moments I pray to whatever deity will listen to make it stop. I pray for death. I pray for life. I pray for many things, until I am no longer praying but merely babbling whatever comes to mind to occupy my body.

I know that I will regret it, but I twist my head in such a way that the wound is visible. And then I am glad that Aragorn's hand is still over my mouth, because if it wasn't, I surely would have given a shriek to rival that of the Nazgul. 

The wound is an ugly, unnatural reddish purple. The arrow has pierced me just below my breastbone; above the mithril. I know instinctively that the arrow was poisoned. No mere arrow wound could hurt this much. 

I wish I had not looked. Now, coupled with the agonizing pain, there is a rising nausea in my stomach. Bile fills my throat, and I choke it back, if only to avoid the pain of rolling over and the torture of wasting that energy on vomiting.

Strangely, I am now overcome with a desire to sleep. I shiver compulsively, some irrational part of my brain telling me that I will never get to sleep with so much pain hounding me. I welcome the sleep with open arms, only dimly remembering the flower that Aragorn had fed me earlier.

And it is only just before my eyes close that I realize that Aragorn wasn't the only one tending to me. That Sam is there, and Merry and Pippin. And that Legolas has been holding my head in his lap. Where Boromir is, I know not, but it does not matter as the pain fades with my awareness and I fall to sleep.

***

When I awake, everything is in a haze. Pain is tangled up with fear and the startling freezing heat that accompanies a fever. I don't even know what whether to classify what I am feeling as pain. But it is definitely uncomfortable, and I know that as my mind comes into focus, it will all twist together into the solid entity of agony.

I realize that my eyes aren't open. Slowly I open them, hoping the grey will fade and take the confusion with it.

But it doesn't. Instead, I am assaulted on a whole new front. Colors and shapes and textures and light that's far too bright for me to comprehend. Reflexively, I close my eyes again. The grey was confusing, but at least it was safe. 

I hear what I assume is a voice. It sounds to me only as a low bass sound, rising and falling smoothly. It gives me something solid to cling to. Something real to use as a barricade against the hurt.

The voice is telling me to do something. I'm pretty sure it is, anyways. Dimly, I realize that I recognize this voice. It's...Strider. My Aragorn. The memory of my near-death by the morgul blade flares sharply in my memory. His voice drew me back then, too.

Timidly, I open my eyes again. The stunning brightness and confusion that comes with adding a new sense fades quickly this time. I am able to make out a concerned face over me. It's Aragorn.

Nearby I sense Sam. Steady and dependable. I reach my hand out instinctively. But it's a mistake. As soon as I do, a silent scream is ripped from me. My vocal chords are straining, but no sound is made. My wound stabs at me viciously, reminding me that I am prisoner of the pain.

A large, warm palm rests on the side of my face. I lean into it, grateful to have something else to focus on.

"Wha--" I try to say something, but lose my train of thought. Somehow, despite the pain, I'm falling asleep again. "What happened?" I remember in time.

"It doesn't matter. Sleep, my love." I am about to comply, eager to be rid of the pain, but something doesn't add up. What is....Aragorn. He called me his love. As soon as I figure it out, my brain relaxes, and I drift back to sleep.

***

When I wake up, it's early dawn. I am immediately reminded of the pain, but then realize, after the first sharp stab, that it has lessened. I am able to focus on things now.

There is a fire that glows coldly in the frozen grey morning. No warmth comes from it, or at least none that I can feel. Sam is cooking something over the fire. The rest of the fellowship is sitting around, talking, or else helping. 

As soon as I think of it, my eyes snap shut. I do not want to be fussed over. Not just yet. It takes too much energy out of me. I don't want to have to answer questions about how I am, or pretend to listen and be polite while they tell me that everything will be fine soon. If I pretend that I am asleep, then maybe they won't harass me just yet.

I know it won't work indefinitely. Soon I'll have to be conscious and aware and comforting to Sam and Merry and Pippin, even when I myself am the one who needs comforting. But I had hoped to hold on to my peace for a while yet.

Unfortunately, it is not to be. Pippin must have seen me open my eyes, because he gives a squeak. "Frodo's awake!"

I moan silently and long to pull the blanket over my head. Merry and Pippin are soon followed by Sam. They crowd around me, and I almost feel as though I can't breathe. "How are you, Frodo?" "Are you okay, Frodo?" 

Exactly as I predicted. "Yes, yes, I'll be alright." Their concern is overwhelming. 

"Move back, Merry, Pippin. Frodo needs some space. You too, Sam." Legolas smiles kindly as he ushers my eager cousins and best friend away. It strikes me that I have not spent much time with the elf, despite our long journey together. For the first time, I feel as though I might like to get to know him better. He doesn't seem so far away now.

"Legolas is right." Aragorn places his hand gently on Sam's shoulder, and I bristle slightly at the touch. Fighting the jealousy down is too hard and seems mostly pointless, so I just let it go.

While Aragorn is ushering the three hobbits away, Legolas kneels by my side. "Do you think you can travel today, little one?" I know instinctively that I don't have much choice in the matter.

I nod my head, though the motion reminds me that I am not completely better. Not even very close. 

"Alright. I will carry you. Unless you had someone else in mind?" He must have seen me looking. When he said he would carry me, I felt my heart sink just that tiniest bit. I had hoped Aragorn would carry me. Apparently, I had been gazing at him, because Legolas had a glint of mirth in his eyes. I don't see how he thinks it's humorous.

"No. It's fine." I give a lasting look at Aragorn, who is speaking quietly to Sam, Merry, and Pippin, and then back at Legolas. Well, I wanted a chance to get to know him. Looks like I'm finally going to get it.

***

The elf's gait is smooth most of the time. He moves with a grace that makes me ashamed of my own clumsy, blundering way of walking. I spend as much time falling as I do walking. 

Imagine that. He's managed to make me ashamed of my own *walking*. See, this is what I mean when I say he makes me feel so incompetent. Legolas *never* stumbles.

I'm cradled in his arms, and I can almost fall asleep. I catch Aragorn staring at me out of the corner of my eye, and then I remember what I thought was a dream. He called me his 'love'.

A part of me is elated at the memory. And the other part of me, the part that's grown wary and paranoid is ready to fall apart. Because now, I can't have that extra security. If Aragorn doesn't want me, then I *can't* fall to the Ring. But he does, and I don't have that excuse anymore. I don't have anything but my own lust and fear turned against myself. And it's driving me insane.

Somehow, falling asleep seems like it would be giving up. Letting go, leaving my problems to themselves. But as much as I try to stay awake, it's really not up to me, and eventually my eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. As I give in, residual guilt blankets me.

***

We make camp early. I'm sure that it's my fault. And I should be guilty, but I really am tired, despite my protests to the contrary. How can that be when I've spent so much time sleeping?

And for that matter, how is it that they all seem to see through me? It's not as if I'm a habitual liar. I stick to the truth most of the time, but every time I don't, Aragorn, Boromir, or Legolas will smile tolerantly down at me. Like a child. I don't really want to offend them, so I resist the urge to roll my eyes and slump my shoulders. Especially since that would probably only make them look at me like more of a child.

Just because I am the Ringbearer does not mean that I need to be coddled.

Apparently, though, Aragorn does not see it that way. "Here, little one. Have some tea, it will help you to feel better." He ruffles my hair with his hand. I stiffen. I'm not his _dog_. Nor am I a child.

"Thank you, Aragorn." I say coldly, politely. The look on his face is confused; I don't think he even understands what he did wrong. Well, that's not my problem, really.

He nods once, and then leaves me. 

I am sitting on the ground, surrounded by blankets. Legolas and Boromir are sitting on some large boulders that are strewn about our camp, and Merry and Pippin are talking quietly over the fire, where they're cooking what appears to be dinner. Sam and Gimli are nowhere to be found.

I sigh. I wish I hadn't been so rude to Aragorn. I am rather lonely, here, with no one to talk to. I'm still too sick to move around much, but the fever has abated enough that I'm rapidly becoming bored.

I stare down into the cup of soup he's given me. It looks distinctly unappetizing. I wrinkle my nose a bit, and then down it in a single gulp.

Which really wasn't a very smart thing to do, because it leaves my coughing a bit and gasping for air. The foul-looking brew actually tasted worse than it looked. 

As soon as I can breathe again, Sam is sitting at my side. "Are you alright, Mr. Frodo?" He asks. Loyal Sam, full of sympathy. He thinks me so wonderful. I wonder what he'd say if he knew the things the Ring whispers to me in the dark of the deepest parts of the night. He probably wouldn't even be able to understand it. Which is, of course, one of the reasons that I love him so dearly.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." I say, smiling forcedly for him. If I'm going to pretend to be fine, I might as well be convincing.

Soon the others are eating as well, and I watch jealously. I got a disgusting soup, and they're eating bread and fruit and some sort of animal Legolas shot. Unfair. But, then again, everything about my life is unfair at the moment, and I'm not given to complaining, so I'm not going to start now.

"Mr. Strider says that you're on the mend. But if you don't mind me sayin', sir, you don't look it. You're so pale..." Sam reaches his hand out to stroke my cheek. I can't tell if it's supposed to be brotherly affection or meant as something more, but I flinch away all the same. I can't stand the thought of someone touching me right now.

Sam looks stricken. He pulls back a ways, and then stands. "I'm sorry Mr. Frodo. I didn't mean no offense."

"No, Sam. It's not you. It's just, I'd rather not have anyone at all touch me right now." I give him what I hope is a kindly smile, and he chews his lip before moving on. I know I've hurt his feelings, and I'm sorry, I really am, but I can't let it be my problem right now. Sam's strong, and he'll understand once he thinks about it a little bit. I hope.

After everyone has gone to sleep or moved away, I decide that the only plausible course of action is sleep. I roll over, but a few seconds later, Legolas comes up to me. "How are you feeling, little one?" he asks, and brushes an invisible curl away from my cheek. For a moment, I wonder if he's attracted to me, but then I remember seeing him with Boromir recently, and fight the urge to smile knowingly. I'm not the one he has his eye on.

I bite my lip. My almost-smile turns into somewhat of a frown. It hardly seems fair that they should be able to find happiness. I don't want to begrudge them their love, or lust, if that's the case. It's just...I'm the Ring-Bearer. Every moment of every day I have to ignore the seductive and malicious whisperings of the One Ring. Not to be self-absorbed, but...If anyone deserves happiness, it should be me.

As soon as I think that, I jump a bit in surprise. It's getting harder and harder now to tell which are my thoughts and which are the Ring's callings. 

Legolas is looking at me attentively. "Frodo?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm alright, Legolas. Thank you for asking." I wince. I sound so polite, it's almost impolite. His eyes do not change, but he nods anyway, and moves away, presumably to let me sleep.

I turn to watch him go. But instead of the elf's back, it is my ranger that I'm watching. Not on purpose, but his grey eyes have captivated me. My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, I forget all the reasons why I'm angry with him, and just remember his tenderness when caring for me, the ferocity with which he defended me. He is truly worthy of someone better than me. Me, who will probably not even survive this horrible journey.

I look away. I need to come to terms with it, and move on. Accept my fate, and stop griping about how unfair this whole ordeal is.


	6. Interlude I

Title: Temptation Interlude I: An Elf's Musings

Author: RavenWolf

Rating: R

Pairings: L/B and F/A

Disclaimers: So not mine.

Summary: Legolas discovers a few things about his feelings for a certain man. And then decides that Frodo and Aragorn need a little push in their not-relationship.

A/N: I'm baaack...And you all thought you'd gotten rid of me, didn't you? :) But seriously, sorry for the long delay, guys. I promise to try harder to keep up with this story. 

A/N 2: This is Legolas POV. The first bit is mostly L/B, but then pulls back to Legolas's perspective on the Frodo/Aragorn thing. Why is it Legolas? Because I liked his smart-ass attitude in TTT and wanted to exploit it here. And I needed a catalyst for Frodo and Aragorn. Hence, Legolas. I also know I've seriously screwed with the timeline of the story, but it's my fic, so there.

            Boromir is missing. I am loathe to leave Frodo, but I know he will be alright, even if I am not there. Estel will take care of him. And the other hobbits are completely devoted to him. He will be okay. But Boromir...

            I am not so sure about him.

            He is so strong...He is trying, I know. But his eyes are shadowed and when he looks at Frodo, his face takes on a foreign quality. Greed. I don't like to see that expression on his face, because I know that it doesn't belong there. Somehow, I know that it never used to be there. He is a good man. But I am afraid that he is slipping.

            I tell Aragorn of my plans, and slip away. The sylvan setting makes me feel at home, and I glide through the trees agilely, slipping among the shadows and light. There is no sound, so I do not worry that something has happened to him. But he shouldn't be alone.

            I probably worry far too much about him. I haven't known him long at all. There is nothing particularly miraculous about him. He is a Man; not like me at all. And yet...there is something that draws me to him. Some inner radiance. A light that even we Elves do not possess. He is different than me. But that is not necessarily a bad thing. I am nowhere near perfect.

            I find him a ways from the camp. He is sitting against a tree. His eyes are closed, and the sunlight filters in and kisses his face gently. He is completely oblivious to my presence, and I take advantage of that fact. I watch him silently, enjoying the way that his thoughts play across his face in the forms of a twitch of the lips. A small frown. A small smile. I wonder what he is thinking about.

            I move closer to scrutinize his face more closely. But I am not paying attention; a twig snaps beneath my feet.

            His eyes snap open and his hand reaches for his sword. Pure instinct. The survival of a warrior depends solely on his reflexes.

            But then he sees me, and his face relaxes. He leans back against the tree. "Legolas." He seems to think carefully before choosing his next words. "How is the halfling?"

            "I am not sure. He is remaining more or less the same. But Aragorn and I are doing all we can for now. And when I left, he was resting." I cock my head. I cannot help it; this man intrigues me.

            Boromir nods. "I do hope that he recovers. This journey has been so hard on him..."

            I stand silently for a while, watching the light begin to fade from the sky. We are not far from Lorien now. A few more days' travel, at the most. There, Frodo will get all the healing he needs. I am eager to walk among my kin once more, but with it comes a reminder. I am Elf-kind. Boromir is a Man. We are different, and in this case, it *is* a bad thing.

            Uninvited, I sit down next to him. He turns to look at me, surprise painting his features. "Shouldn't you return? Frodo surely must be in need of your care."

            "But no, Aragorn can handle it," he says, as if talking to himself. He looks up and shares a secret smile with me; they are so obviously in love.

            I raise an eyebrow. "Indeed." His lips quirk upwards in a smile. For a moment, the shadows in his eyes and the cares on his shoulders are chased away, and I see his eyes twinkle as he laughs. It's a deep, rich sound, and it sends shivers down my spine.

            I smile, pleased at having made him laugh. It is a rare sound; in fact, I don't think I've ever heard it before. His eyes lock with mine. He stops laughing, though his eyes still mirror happiness.

            Then he reaches his hand out and touches my cheek. I fight the urge to lean into it. His hand is rough and calloused from wielding a sword. My own hand reaches up and covers his of its own accord. I am still staring into his eyes.

            When it seems that time has frozen, I dart forward and press a quick kiss to his lips. He blinks in surprise, and then lowers his gaze. "I...I didn't know that you...And I...I'm glad you did that." I am surprised to see what almost appears to be a blush rising and staining his cheeks.

            "So am I." I say softly. Determinedly. Now that I know that I am not alone in my wanting, nothing will prevent me. "They won't be expecting me back for a while..."

            I leave the sentence hanging. I will not force him; being immortal gives one patience. I will wait for him, if that is what he needs. Because we are so alike. So close in spirit, and at the same time very different. So I will wait for him, if it is required of me to get what I want.

            "Yes..." he says softly. He catches my meaning. And it seems that there will be no waiting needed. Which is good, because I am rapidly finding myself becoming uncomfortable. Something strange I think. I am supposed to be attracted to Elves, to my own kind, and their fair skin and beautiful features. But I find myself deeply attracted to this rugged man, who as anything but an Elf. He has a scruffy beard and his hair is relatively short and dull. But one of the most attractive features he has, I think, is his voice. Deep and rough, like chocolate with sand in it. That simple word is enough to send shivers down my spine.

            I nod once at him, and my hands go to his belt. We've all been allowed little privacy on this quest, so I know that he's well built beneath his garments. But it will be different to see him and not worry about being noticed. And to be able to touch that which I have admired from afar. 

            I've laid my bow down on the ground next to it, and now my quiver of arrows has been placed beside it. 

            After seeing me take the initiative, Boromir's reluctance seems to fade, and he moves closer to me with hungry eyes. And a hungry mouth, as he sweeps me up in a fierce kiss, lips bruising mine with their force. It's perfect, and his scruffy beard brushes my face in the most delicious way.

            He pushes me back on the ground, and, well, things progress from there...

***

            When we return, Aragorn is speaking urgently to Gimli, who is nodding enthusiastically. When we enter the camp, both of them, plus all four hobbits, turn to look at us.

            Countless years of experience keep me from being too embarrassed, but I see color rising in Boromir's cheeks and he shifts and stares at the ground nervously. I smirk. It's strangely humorous to see the normally stoic man lose his composure.

            Aragorn opens his mouth as if he's going to say something. But then he seems to think better of it, because his mouth closes with a clink as his teeth snap together. I brush the leaves off my breeches. "How is Frodo?" I ask cheerily. There is dead silence for a moment as they all stare at us, not seeming to hear me. I imagine they're noticing the bits of debris caught in our hair and on our clothes. Not to mention that Boromir's shirt is tucked half in and half out.

            Aragorn is the first to snap out of it. He tosses a concerned glance towards Frodo, who appears to be on the verge of sleep again. "Not good," he says in a lowered voice. "I'm worried, Legolas. He's not getting worse, but he's not getting better, either."

            I look over at the halfling in question. There's an unhealthy pallor to his face, and he sleeps restlessly now. A thin sheen of sweat covers his pale face. "Has the wound healed at all?" I ask. I would not know; Aragorn is very protective of Frodo, and I am not allowed to do anything to him without Aragorn's direct supervision. It would be cute if it weren't so annoying.

            But not now. "Yes. But not nearly enough. I think it may be infected." He bites his lip and looks at Frodo. "Would you be willing to look at it?" 

            "Of course," I say smoothly. I frown. Frodo is strong, but he's been through a lot. He can't be expected to endure indefinitely. The journey and the loss of Gandalf have made him weak, both in spirit and in body. I look sideways at Estel, who is staring intently at Frodo with a tender, unguarded look on his face. I can tell as well that the conflict between them is causing Frodo unnecessary stress and strain. If they were to resolve it, I know they could draw so much strength from one another.

            I turn my attention to Boromir, who so far has stood silently through our entire conversation. I allow my hand to brush his, and throw him a soft smile. He smiles back, and I know that I am lucky to have found such...happiness on such a harsh quest. Yes, indeed, it is happiness, and it so strange that I have found it in a man, this man, in particular.

            "He will be alright, Estel." I say in an attempt to comfort him. He nods at me without taking his eyes from Frodo.

            I sigh, and beckon to the hobbits to help me fix dinner. They look up from where they've been conversing amongst themselves, and Merry and Pippin nod at each other. Then, they drag Sam away from his ailing friend's side to come help.

            I see Boromir give a small smile out of the corner of my eye. It does seem to be true; the hobbits have a miraculous way of lifting everyone's spirits. 

            Aragorn is tending to Frodo. Again. I don't believe I've ever seen him show such tenderness towards anyone before. He dabs the sweat from the halfling's brow, and occasionally, when Frodo cries out and starts to thrash, he presses a kiss to his forehead. At all times he clutches Frodo's hand to him tightly.

            And beneath the worried anguish, I see something else. Frustration. I have the sneaking suspicion that there are things that he wanted to say to Frodo. That both of them have left unsaid. 

            I have decided. Both of them are unbearably stubborn. And if they will do nothing to remedy the situation by themselves, then someone is going to have to step in and help. And I can think of no one better for the job than myself.

***

            The sun has gone down, and we have eaten dinner. Merry and Sam are already asleep. Frodo is sitting up against a small rock, looking pale and shaken. And Pippin seems intent on staying up, and forcing us to stay up with him.

            I have offered to take Aragorn's watch. My Ranger friend has not left Frodo's side all night, though Frodo hardly seems to notice. 

            Gimli is on first watch. Ready to sleep, I turn to find my bedroll, and discover that it has been moved to a new location. Beside Boromir's. He's laying on his side, his back to my bedroll, pretending to be sleeping. Well. If that's the way he wants it...

            I lay down, pressing myself flush against his back. I can feel his muscles tense, but he makes no sign of acknowledging me. I brush his hair back from his neck and nuzzle the junction of his shoulder and neck. "Good night, Boromir," I whisper into his ear tenderly, half-playfully, half-seriously. I know then that this man has captured my heart, fully and irreversibly. Partway between his simple bravery, quick wit, and dry humor, I've found myself hopelessly in love with him.

            I sigh softly when he turns to me in the dark and kisses me softly on the lips. A shiver runs down my spine, but I am tired, and must be content to simply rest in his arms. I bend my head to his chest and wrap my arms around his back, crushing him close to me.

            "Goodnight, my Elf prince," he says seriously, staring into my eyes. The moonlight sky frames his head. Everything is perfect. And then he continues the sentence: "Or should I say princess?" He smirks. I fight the childish urge to smack the back of his head.

            Instead I roll over in a mock huff. Now it is his turn to press himself against me. My body relaxes into his arms, and I feel that I can let his little insult go. For now. But I'm immortal; there is plenty of time for payback later.

***

            The next morning, Frodo asks that I carry him again. I see Aragorn's wounded look, and I see the way that he tries to hide it. I also see the way that Frodo stares at him when he is not looking.

            After breakfast, I steal a moment alone with Frodo while the others are packing. Boromir catches my eye as I am going to him. And then that infernal man winks.

            Frodo looks up when I approach. I am caught momentarily in wide, cerulean eyes, dulled for the moment by sickness. Frodo is truly a hobbit fairer than most. In fact, some days I am not entirely convinced that he's not just a particularly small elf.

            "Legolas," he says by way of greeting. I nod at him.

            "How are you feeling this morning, Frodo?" I ask.

            He gives me a weak smile. "Alright, I suppose. A little bit weak. And my wound is hurting again." I nod thoughtfully, but that is not why I'm here. Besides, Estel would kill me if I did something to his precious hobbit without his knowledge and consent.

            "Frodo, I wanted to talk to you about something," I say, uncertain how to phrase my next sentence. He looks at me with surprise, waiting for me to continue. "You and Aragorn. What...what's happened? I see him looking at you, and I've noticed the cold way you seem to treat him. This would not be so unless something important has happened. I simply want to know what it is."

            He looks indignant at first, ready to open his mouth and tell me to mind my own business. But slowly he closes it, and the look on his face becomes thoughtful and unguarded. He nods quietly. "I will tell you. But not now." He nods over my shoulder, where it appears we are ready to move on. "Later today. But are you sure you want to burden yourself with my troubles?"

            I smile, and kneel down. "Of course, Frodo. You are my friend, as is Estel, and I would like to see you both happy. And as for burdening myself with your troubles, I would not mind at all. You carry a large enough burden as it is, and it would be my pleasure to help lighten your load."

            I look behind me. Aragorn is motioning for us to continue. Frodo sighs and stands up. Suppressing a chuckle, I lift him up and cradle him in my arms. He weighs hardly anything at all. Which is a surprise, when I compare him to the other hobbits.

            "This is very humiliating, you know," he says. But already I can see him settle himself and get comfortable.

            "I would imagine so." I say. And then we do not speak for a long while.

***

            We stop at midday for lunch and a brief rest. Despite having done very little walking, Frodo looks tired. I begin to wonder whether or not I should push for information on what's going on between him and Aragorn. Then I realize that I really must. Aragorn has withdrawn into himself more and more as the days pass, and I can barely get him to say two words to me.

            While lunch is passed around, I go to sit next to Frodo. The other hobbits are absorbed again in a secret conversation. They are constantly turning their gazes to Frodo, and by default, me. I wonder idly what they are talking about.

            Frodo shifts uncomfortably on his blankets and nibbles delicately at some bread. His eyes flick to me quickly, and then back to his food. "We'll be reaching Lorien sometime tomorrow, if I'm not mistaken." He looks up at me through his lashes.

            I nod, somewhat surprised that he's been keeping track of our progress. I keep forgetting that this is no ordinary hobbit that I'm dealing with. I also notice his weak attempt at small talk. "He cares about you, you know." I say without preamble. He knows who I'm talking about, and his eyes dart quickly to where Aragorn is sitting, then back.

            His manner grows strangely downcast and he stares at the ground, losing all interest in his food. "I know," he whispers.

            "Then what is the problem?" He looks at me in disbelief. As if it is impossible to miss why they would not simply be together.

            His brows knit together in thought. "It's complicated," he says finally.

            "Why?" 

            "Because...he treats me like a child. But he kissed me. He told me that he..." Here he lowers his voice. "He told me that his feelings for me were dangerous. And that I should just stay away. And I...I worry that it's the Ring making me feel like this. Goading me into doing something that I shouldn't."

            I snort. "That certainly sounds like Estel. Trying to protect everyone from everything. Even himself. But Frodo, I don't think that the Ring is making you feel anything. It only exploits feelings that are already there. I don't think it could make you...make you love him. But it is up to you to decide whether or not your feelings are true. I would not know the pull of the Ring as intimately as you.

            I do think that it is important you resolve this problem. I can see the tension wearing on you day by day. And you're not the only one. For better or for worse, he cares very deeply about you, maybe even loves you. I think that you should decide whether or not what you feel is real, and then tell him about it. He deserves that much at least."

            He looks startled. His eyes brighten a bit, and I smile. It seems that I have been able to be of some assistance, after all. 

            Both of us turn when Aragorn announces that it is time to move on. I think for a moment, and then smile. "Aragorn?" I say. "I am a bit tired. Perhaps you could carry Frodo for a while?" Frodo looks stricken. I smirk. My work is done.

            "Of course," he responds. Frodo looks stricken. 

            "Think about what I said?" I ask as I stand up.

            "Alright." He summons up a weak smile for me as Aragorn comes over to scoop him up in his arms.

            I walk up to Boromir's side.


	7. Chapter 6

Title: Temptation (7/?)

Author: RavenWolf

Rating: R

Pairings: L/B and F/A

Disclaimers: As if I owned these beauties.

Summary: Frodo and Aragorn break out of their emotional deadlock.

A/N: Dedicated to Bunny, Lily, Claudia, and everyone else who ever reviewed this story.

It is times like these I wish I were an elf instead of a hobbit. Legolas seems to always know exactly what he is talking about, and now is no exception. Thanks to him, I feel even more lost and confused, and on top of that, guilty for not having shared my feelings with Aragorn. And for letting him suffer from not knowing how I feel. In hindsight, the way he has been feeling is all too clear.

How can I be so selfish? I couldn't even see him through my own problems. Now extenuating circumstances (and Legolas) have forced me to confront myself on this matter, and to admit that I really can't go on pretending that nothing has happened.

Because something has. I've fallen in love with Aragorn. And it's not just the Ring talking. Blinding as day, the truth overtook me sometime during my talk with Legolas. I love him. I love him cleanly, purely, without reservations. It can't be the cunning manipulations of the Ring doing this to me. That would feel...dirty. But this...I know that it is alright.

For me, anyway. But what about him? He has Arwen...And he is a Man. He told me that his feelings for me ran deep...That at least, is encouraging. But what happens when this quest ends? What will happen if by some miracle, I survive this? What then? Somehow, I can't picture him riding off to the Shire with me. His destiny lies in Minas Tirith. Among his own people.

My doubts weigh me down again. But I am comforted when his strong arms lift me gently to his chest. I can hear his heartbeat. 

A soft sigh leaves my lips. He is warm...His shirt rubs against my cheek. It smells like him, smoky and earthy. I try to squirm closer to him without arousing his suspicion. I feel myself growing aroused. 

I blink myself out of my stupor. And find him looking down at me with a strange look in his eyes. As soon as I've noticed his attention, he looks up and continues walking. I have the feeling this is going to be a very uncomfortable trip. For both of us, if I'm not mistaken.

I shift in his arms. They're so strong and firm...I bet his skin is soft. His hands are calloused, though, from wielding a sword. And I remember how scruffy his face feels from the last time we kissed. But I bet his skin is soft where it covers his chest and his arms. And...certain other parts...

That kind of thinking is not going to help me. Yesterday, I was sick enough that I was able to fall asleep in Legolas's arms. But today, circumstances have combined in order to make it impossible to do anything but wonder how Aragorn would look all sweaty and aglow with passion. 

***

I spent most of the day in a sort of stupor. Lost in my thoughts, fueled by the feel of Aragorn around me, I'm almost surprised when we come to a halt for the day.

Aragorn sets me down and then smoothes his hand over my brow. He frowns. "You still have a bit of a fever. I'm going to brew you some tea to see if we can't bring it down." I like the feel of his hand against my skin. I must have a fever, because I tell him so.

"Your hand feels so good," I say, and lean into it. He looks a bit surprised, and something else flickers behind grey eyes before he leaves to go brew the tea. Legolas and Boromir are unpacking over near a log. Legolas catches my eye for a moment.

I'm shivering. It feels suddenly cold out. Even though I can practically feel the heat radiating from my skin. I blink, and find that my eyes were closed. Where is Aragorn? This isn't good. I'm not feeling so well anymore...

I press myself back against a log, and pull my cloak tightly around me. Cold. So cold. Where is...where is he?

A moment later, he returns. I let myself relax. "Frodo? Frodo!"

I jerk myself up. I look up at him through bleary eyes. "What?" I ask. Probably too meanly. But I can't help it. What I really want is for him to lay down with me and share his delicious warmth, but since I know I won't ask, I'm being a bit grouchy.

He hands me a steaming mug, and I remember that he was gone for a reason. Tea. I breathe the steam in deeply, and feel it saturate my lungs with warmth. It's strongly flavored, but not as disgusting as some of the other...remedies Aragorn has cooked up.

"Thank you." I say with as much courtesy as I can muster.

"Anytime, Frodo." He says softly, and reaches his hand out to my forehead again. Presumably to check my temperature.

He looks worried for a moment. I look at him with concern, and he gives me a strained smile, and sits down beside me. 

A sudden wish for sleep comes over me. I stare into my mug. Must have been something in the tea...

As I slump down against Aragorn, I can't help but think that I got my wish. And he _is_ so very warm... I press myself closer to the surprised ranger and entwine my hands in his cloak. I smile gently as the familiar musky scent of him reaches me. The smile does not leave my face even after I fall asleep.

***

I wake suddenly. The night around me is quiet, with the exception of the occasional chirping cricket and the sound of the wind blowing through the trees. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, as my head is still muzzy with sleep and fever. It is then that I realize that I am not alone. There is a large, warm body pressed up against me. One arm is slung across me, loosely and possessively.

I smile softly. Aragorn would be embarrassed if he knew what he'd done in his sleep. I shift slightly next to him. I don't want to wake him up, and I know that he's a light sleeper. His mouth is moving slightly in his sleep, almost as if he's trying to say something. No words emerge, though, and he moves slightly, pulling me closer.

His soft breath tickles me, warm against my skin. I snuggle up against him, taking advantage of the circumstances. My head falls to the hollow of his neck. I gently kiss the patch of skin there. I really can't help it. He is just so...sexy. Yes. That's a good word for it. He shifts, and his hand comes to rest on my behind. Mmmm...

Parts of me begin to stir. I wonder briefly if I am dreaming again, some fantasy brought on by fever and shrouded by sleep. But then he mutters something that turns me cold.

"Arwen..." I freeze. My entire body stiffens, and I try to move away. Arwen? Arwen?!? I find the strength to be outraged and hurt in equal parts. Of course, though. What was I thinking? Arwen is his betrothed. He...loves her. As he does not love me. 

Tears are gathering in my eyes and I'm berating myself for being so emotional. It wasn't anything I didn't already know... But then he continues speaking. "So sorry...didn't mean to...love him...Love Frodo, Arwen..." He moans and I find myself pressed up against him again. Though not against my will.

I frown as I try to puzzle out what it means. He said that he was sorry. He told _Arwen _that he was sorry. But most importantly, he said that he loved me. What does that mean? Should I take it seriously? Or is it just some strange dream that has nothing to do with real life?

Something else is nagging at me. Something in the back of my brain. I've forgotten it...wait! He called me his 'love' before. When I was so sick after being shot. Surely this means something. Surely it matters that he's made reference to loving me twice now. Unwittingly or no. I'm beginning to think that Legolas was right. In the morning, I think, I will talk to him.

***

When I wake up again, it is daylight, and Aragorn is gone. I roll onto my side, sleepily blinking myself awake. The place where he had lain is still warm. I open my eyes fully to see that most of the fellowship is assembled around the cooking fire, eating their breakfasts. Aragorn included. I smile at the memory of finding his arm around me in the night. It chases away the phantom darkness at the edge of my thoughts. To think, just a simple memory, the best weapon I've got against my illness and the lure of the Ring.

Well, maybe not the _best_ weapon. Aragorn comes and sits beside me again, bringing me breakfast. I remember thinking last night that we needed to talk. A nervous glance around our camp tells me that maybe I should wait. Aragorn tends to walk behind the rest of the fellowship, to keep an eye on things, so I figure that I will have a chance to speak with him then.

"How are you feeling this morning, Frodo?" He places his hand on my forehead in what I think has become an automatic response for him. See Frodo, check temperature. Not that I entirely mind. As I've said before, his touch seems to comfort and soothe me.

I clear my throat. "Better." He looks at me suspiciously, but takes his hand away.

***

We are close to Lorien now. We should arrive by the end of the day. As the rest of the fellowship packs up our bedrolls, I think about what I want to say to him. So far, I've got 'I care about you very much. So much, in fact, that I think I may love you. But it's okay, because I know that you've got Arwen back home, and I don't mean to intrude...But see, I heard you saying something about loving me, several times now, and I was just wondering if that was a fluke or if you actually do feel that strongly about me.' I close my eyes briefly. Well, not exactly my most eloquent speech. Playing it over in my head makes me notice exactly how needy I come off. Which is pretty appropriate, since needy is how I feel. But what if it annoys him?

He shoulders his pack and comes to where I'm struggling to stand. Still weak from fever, I suppose. It's abated somewhat since yesterday, but I can still feel the slow burn working inside me.

He gives me an easy smile and then picks me up easily off the ground. I'm tempted to just snuggle back into his arms and forget about everything. It wouldn't be hard to do, and that's why it's so inviting.

But no. I promised myself. I promised Legolas. And I owe it to Aragorn to tell him the truth. 

I wait for a bit before realizing that there's no reason. I'm reasonably sure that no one can hear us now, and if they could, they wouldn't be interested. Unless they were a certain elf.

His steady heartbeat next to my ear calms and soothes me. It will be alright. I know it with a certainty that takes my breath away. As long as he is here beside me, it will be alright.

"Aragorn," I whisper, my lips a bit cracked from fever. He looks down at me in surprise. I think he thought I was asleep. As if. "Aragorn," I repeat. "We need to talk."

A cloud passes quickly over his face. I know that he probably doesn't want to have this conversation. Not now, not ever. "Are you sure you want to talk now? Maybe later..."

"No," I say firmly. "I want to talk now." He seems a bit surprised at my own resolve. Frankly, I am too. And to think I didn't want to do this a mere ten minutes ago. 

He looks vaguely uncomfortable. He's waiting for me to start. This looks like it will be a very uncomfortable conversation. From what I know of him, Aragorn doesn't like to open up and share his feelings. Which only serves to make my job doubly hard.

"Aragorn? Do you...do you love me?" I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Exactly the sort of thing _not_ to say. He looks taken aback and surprised. I close my eyes and quietly hope that when I open them, we will be in a bed somewhere, maybe Rivendell, making love.

Alas, my daydream is not to be. When I finally gather the courage to look up at him, he's still staring at me with that strange mix of confusion and...is that want? "Because...because you've said it before. When I was sick...you called me your love. And last night, in your sleep, you whispered..." I'm monitoring the expressions on his face, but they flit across so fast I can't really decipher what he's feeling. Oh, why did I have to keep talking? I feel myself start to blush.

"Frodo..." He starts to say, as if to chastise me for foolish behavior. But before I can get angry, he seems to stop himself. "I don't know what I feel, Frodo. I think...I think I do love you."

All the breath leaves my body in a whoosh. I never expected him to confirm it. Never. And yet...he has. For a moment, all my thoughts disappear, leaving only that one sentence behind. 'I think I love you.' 

Startled grey eyes look into mine, and I think that his expression of love surprised him just as much as it did me. He regains his composure after a second, and looks up. "Thank you," I finally whisper, so quietly that I can barely hear myself. But he hears me, and stops to look at me with passion and caring in his eyes.

"For what, little one?" He asks, genuinely confused. I smile at him. There are a hundred answers to that question, and I do not know what to say to him.

"For loving me," I finally say. "For caring about me. For being honest with me. For taking my mind off my burden. Thank you."

"You are welcome, Frodo." I shiver. The tone in his voice is gruff and yet so tender and caring...I've never heard him speak like that. Even when he once spoke to me of Arwen. 

We reach the borders of Lorien without speaking another word to each other.


	8. Chapter 7

Immediately upon entering Lorien, the atmosphere changes, and my heart lifts. I take a chance, and look down at Frodo's still form. He is still nestled tightly against my breast, clear blue eyes staring away into the distance. His breath comes softly, and there is the occasional catch or wheeze that reminds me that he is still sick.

I shift him as gently as I can, and he nestles farther into my arms. It's strange; I've never seen him so willing to be dependent. But his soft eyes look at me with complete trust, and it's then that I know for sure that I've repaired any error I've made.

I can sense the presence of the elves around us. I look to Legolas, and can tell that he does, too. We don't alert the others; the elves of Lorien are friend, not foe, and anyways, they are most likely biding their time.

Gimli is talking somewhere down and to the right of me, I don't really pay attention, except when the constant rumbling stops. And then, only for a second, because the tip of an arrow is about one inch from my face.

My first thought is for Frodo, I pull him tightly to me, and somehow find a way to support him while touching the pommel of my sword with one hand. I could never fight like this, but nevertheless, the familiar grip of Anduril's hilt comforts me.

Frodo does not speak, but his eyes are wide. I recognize Haldir and my instincts calm. These people are not our enemies. And we are not theirs. I tell them so in Elvish. Haldir thinks for a moment, and then nods to his command, telling them to blindfold us.

***

Time passes so strangely here; I don't think I will ever get used to it. It is never fully day, nor fully night, and everything takes on a silvery cast. No doubt wrought by the lady Galadriel herself.

The Lady has asked to speak with Frodo alone. I sit among the rest of our company, restless, but unwilling to move. I, too, need to speak with Frodo, though doubtless for the same reasons. I have declared my love for him, to the surprise of us both, and now things must change. The only question is, how? Will he admit the same for me? Or will I have to sever my feelings for him, cleanly and painfully? I know that it will not be long now before we have to decide our paths. Will I stay with Boromir and go on to Minas Tirith, or will I stand by Frodo? These are the things I must decide, and even in this atmosphere of carelessness and freedom, they weigh heavily on my mind.

I can't help but notice that Boromir and Legolas are speaking in hushed tones together at the base of one of the giant trees. Boromir has been looking more and more haggard and gaunt, and I know that I should be worried about him.

But how can I be, when my own love suffers the same affliction, multiplied tenfold? 

When we first came to Lorien, the elves asked to take Frodo away. I told them that I would not be parted from his side, and that any healing they would do would be witnessed by me. They didn't like that idea, though I'm not sure why.

But in the end, I was not allowed to be with him, so I don't know what exactly they did. What I do know is that when they were done, when Sam and I went in to visit him, he was deathly pale, and the wound in his shoulder was bleeding profusely, though bandaged.

I sat with him a while, but he soon tired, and fell asleep mid-sentence. I remember brushing his sable curls away from his face and kissing him tenderly.

That was the last time I saw him. I know he must be better if he is conversing with the Lady, but I can't help feeling anxious. I wish I could see him, talk to him, make sure that he's alright.

I leap from my seat and begin pacing again, drawing all eyes to me. 

I begin to wonder why this is taking so long. What could she have to say that--

"What are you so anxious about, Aragorn?" A small voice comes from below my right elbow. I start. I'd forgotten that hobbits could do that, when they wanted to. I'm not used to being surprised.

A smile spreads across my face, broad and unfamiliar. I turn around, kneel, and hug him to me. I'm so relieved to see him alive. I think he's a bit surprised at my actions, but he laughs and hugs me back. "It's good to see you, too!" He says, somewhat mockingly, but I don't care.

"I missed you." I whisper into his ear. "I was so worried about you." He buries his face in the side of my neck, and I sigh with pleasure. He's alright. He's okay.

"I'm alright," he replies. Then he pulls back and looks at me. His eyes are clearer than they've been in weeks. "I'm fine. Thank you for worrying so much about me. I missed you, too."

Too jubilant to care that everyone can see us, I press a kiss to his closed lips, teasing them gently open with my tongue. His beautiful, sweet mouth, open to me again. And perhaps, again and again.

He laughs and pulls away. "Come on, Aragorn. Let's go somewhere more private." I catch his meaning, and it's an arousing thought. Such a wonderful creature offering himself to me so freely... A hard shiver wracks my body.

I follow him, having to stoop a little bit to hold his hand. His fingers are small in mine, cool and firm. He's stronger than he looks.

He leads me into one of the chambers, high in the treetops. He seems a bit nervous. I have the feeling he doesn't like heights too much, as many of his kind don't. It makes sense; hobbits live in holes.

A shaft of light steals through the trees and into the chamber, and as luck, or maybe something else, would have it, glints off the chain that holds the Ring. Frodo's cotton white shirt is unbuttoned so that I can almost see it. Almost, but not quite.

I look down at my shaking hands. "Take it off." Frodo looks at me with surprise.

"What?"

"The Ring. Take it off. I can't--I can't do anything with it right there like that. Please."

"I can't, Aragorn. You know that. The instant I take it off, I'll lose it. Or someone will take it. I haven't come so far for it to end just like that." I stare at my hands. They itch to touch him. Or it. Either way, they're drawn towards Frodo. I'm drawn towards him.

"Please," I beg. I don't know what's happening. I don't know what I want. I just know that the responsible part of me, the part that loves him, is yelling at me. Telling me I can't get any closer. My fingers itch and my mind is chasing itself in circles. A deadly want sweeps through me, nearly swallowing the more wholesome one. Almost, but not quite.

"Aragorn," he says, backing away slowly, his hand reaching to his chest. Brushing the pale skin there lightly. Running along the fine chain around his neck. "What's going on?" Suspicion has entered his voice, and it makes me seethe with self-loathing. He's afraid of me. I scare him. I suddenly realize that I could easily overpower him. Hold him down and take what I wanted. Both...things that I want.

I draw in a sharp breath at the thought and start backing away. How could I even _think_ that!? I would _never_...!! The Ring glints a baleful gold. A whisper in my mind tells me not to be foolish. _Take it. TAKE it. _It appears a luminescent gold, nestled against the contrasting pale skin. I should. I should take it. It would greatly ease Frodo's burden...NO! It is his to bear. He chose it. I cannot take it from him.

I blink. Once. Twice. And the illusion is gone. The whisper fades out of me, and the Ring settles back onto its chain. Leaving Frodo looking shaky, pale, and a bit frightened. "Aragorn?" he asks.

"I'm alright. It's okay now, Frodo. _It_ doesn't have me anymore." I sit down on a pile of cushions disguised as a chair, still processing what happened. Frodo, seemingly reassured, comes over to sit beside me. I feel nervous at the Ring's closeness, but Frodo is also there, and this time, there is no strange distortion of thought and desire. I know what I want now. Him. Frodo. Not the Ring.

After a pause, he stands, and then re-settles himself in my lap. My arms come up to cradle him so that he won't fall. "I don't know what happened. The Ring, I think. It wanted me to take it." I confide quietly in him, afraid of my own words. Afraid of what they might mean, to him, and to me. 

But he merely reaches up and strokes my cheek gently. "I know," he says simply. And I feel instantly ashamed for not remembering that he deals with it constantly, always inside his mind. What kind of weakling am I if only one assault brought me to my knees? "Shhh," he says, pressing a calming kiss to my lips. "You aren't weak. You weren't expecting it, and you won anyway." He says, reading my thoughts so very accurately.

I am inclined not to believe him, not to let it go. A part of me wants to believe that I'm a weakling. Because the alternative is that the Ring really _is_ that strong... But the rest of me knows that he's right. The brutal, painful honesty in his eyes doesn't allow me to believe anything else.

"Thank you," I whisper, and press my face to his crisp curls. He smells soft and clean. Like moonbeams. Fresh and shining. He turns his face, then leans up to kiss me. Softly. Quickly.

He pulls back and blinks slowly. Almost like he's had an epiphany. I stare back at him, lost in my own sea of lust and love, and recognition of the two. Then he leans in to do it again. This time harder, pressing our faces together by winding his fingers in my hair. My eyes shoot open in surprise. Then they close, surrendering to the demands of the kiss.

This shouldn't be anything new. It's nothing we haven't done before. But somehow, it's not as desperate. I'm not afraid that he will be taken away from me in the next moment, or that he will regret this the next day. In fact, I'm pretty sure that we'll have a good long while to ourselves. Especially since Boromir winked at me as we were leaving. 

I move my arm so that I'm grabbing his bottom and pressing him into me. He wriggles delightfully. So precious a thing, and so damn arousing...

He turns to straddle my lap. His sapphire eyes are filled to brimming with an emotion I am afraid to name, and he kisses my cheekbones. Butterfly kisses, feathery, light, and fleeting. His lush lips alight on my eyelids. Then they move to caress my jawbone, and the sensation causes me to groan and shift.

He kisses me on the lips again, and I cannot stand it. I pick us both up and move us to the bed in the center of the chamber. I wonder hurriedly if we will be interrupted, and then cast the thought aside in favor of Frodo. 

Frodo, who I have now laid on the bed. He is spread out, breathing lightly, and staring at me from under his eyelashes. Waiting for me. Hungering for me, I imagine, though not nearly as much as I do for him.

I note that his blue eyes widen and darken further when he is aroused. Something very enticing, for those eyes have always been a weak spot of mine.

I lick my suddenly dry lips, uncertain of where to begin. I have waited so long for this; it seems as though I should have planned better.

I do know that in my fantasies, our love-making always begins with a kiss, so I decide that that's a good place to start. I crawl up the bed, and press him down with the force of it. He squirms, and for a moment there is the lightning stab of fear. Am I hurting him? Forcing him? But he moans in pleasure.

I roll to the side, pressing him close to my body. Letting him feel my hardness. My desire for him.

I press my lips gently to the side of his neck. "I love you." I say into his soft skin. It feels good to say it. Wonderful, in fact. So I say it again. "I love you."

He smiles and strokes my hair absently. "I...I love you, too." The words coming from him send a thrill through my body, and I pull back to gaze into his eyes and ascertain the truth of his words. What I see there unarms me completely.

Naked, utter, vulnerable truth. Something I have no way to defend myself against. I crush his body to me, overwhelmed.

And then I swear a second oath to him. "I will do my best to see that your love is not misplaced."

***

I wake from my peaceful slumber to the sound of the elves' sonorous voices. Frodo lays atop my chest. Every time I breathe, he moves up and down slightly. I reach down to stroke his back. I feel...refreshed. Alive. Every part of my body responds to the cool night air and the elves' melodious song, and I wish for a moment to wake Frodo to share this with him.

But when I go to shake him, I find that he is already awake. He says nothing, only rolls onto his belly and props his chin on my chest, staring at me. Every part of me tingles under that gaze.

"Listen," I say softly. "The elves are singing. Is the song not beautiful?" I stroke the side of his face, and he nods.

"Indeed, it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard." He turns and kisses my fingertips. "But do they always sing such sad songs?"

I smile. "No. They rarely sing of happy things, but when they do, it is enough to make you forget your most troublesome worries. Do you remember in Imladris?"

He smiles himself, in remembrance. "I do. But I was a bit pre-occupied with Bilbo at the time." He sighs, then, the smile gone from his face. "I miss him. Do you think I'll ever see him again?"

I stop myself from giving him a false, hopeful answer. I don't think it would cheer him much, and besides, I have the feeling he would see right through me. "Bilbo is old, Frodo. And your journey is long, and only just begun. I cannot answer your question directly, because I honestly don't know. But I do know that if anyone has a chance of succeeding, it's you."

He nods. A bit sadly, I suppose, but that can't be helped. It is rare that he does anything without a bit of sadness to him. "Thank you, Aragorn." I can tell he doesn't believe me, and my heart bleeds for him.

"I was merely answering a question, my love." I lean forward and kiss him on the forehead. 

He gives a quirky, half smile. "My love. You called me that before. I think I like it."

***

The time has come to leave the seeming paradise of Lothlorien behind. I would dally there with Frodo for the rest of my days, but the outside world calls, and we must obey. There are things to be done, important things, and decisions to be made. I must decide soon whether I will follow Frodo to Mordor or take the path to Minas Tirith with Boromir.

Frodo is whole again, and fast regaining his strength. We speak less often now, though by circumstance alone. Frodo does not need me to be by his side twenty-four hours a day now, and because this is so, I have no excuse to ignore my other duties.

He doesn't seem to like the water much, though. I can see a sick look of fear on his face almost constantly. I remember that Gandalf once told me something about his parents having drowned. That must be why. Plus, hobbits aren't exactly ideal swimmers.

I pause in my paddling, and sidle over to where he sits. Discreetly, I wrap my arm loosely around his waist. He looks up at me and gives me a weak smile, then goes back to staring at the grey, foamy waters. Enough to make anyone seasick, I should think.

Sam looks at us oddly for a moment, but when I catch his eye, he looks away quickly. 

I tighten my grip on Frodo as it begins to rain.


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: I confess. It's been a while since I read the books, and I'm too lazy to go back and check, so if some of the names are wrong or used incorrectly, I'm sorry.

We make camp early that night. It has continued to rain all day, and most of us are pretty soaked. We've had to bail out the boats almost constantly, and I think everyone is relieved to be on dry land, the hobbits most of all.

Sam immediately sets to work with the food. I'm very grateful to have him along most days; for such a small person, he certainly pulls his own weight, and then some.

Frodo is shivering, and he huddles up against me for warmth. I can't help the smile that graces my face. I've never been so close with another person as to share public displays of affection. But it feels...nice.

And then there's Sam, who's frozen in his cooking and is staring at us again. I pull Frodo closer to me in a protective embrace. It's a startling reflex. I know that Sam would never hurt him, but Frodo seems to have brought out my protective side.

"Strider, do you think you could get us some more firewood?" Sam asks cautiously. He's trying to do something here. What, I don't know, but for now I'll play along.

"Of course, Sam." Frodo scoots over and I stand up. I look down at him apologetically. I don't want to leave him for any length of time, but I have no choice.

I start to head out when I hear a voice. "Wait. I'll come with you." Sam again. So this is what he wanted. A chance to talk--or yell--at me alone. I have no doubt it concerns Frodo; Sam and I have never spoken two words to each other that haven't regarded the other hobbit.

I stop obediently and wait for him to catch up. He gives me a distrustful look before continuing on at my side.

"Sam, what is this about?" I ask. I would wait for him to find his tongue first, but I am impatient to get back. Something has had me on edge all day, and I don't like the feel of it.

"Well, sir, it's regarding you and Mr. Frodo." I nod. I thought as much.

"What about us?" 

"I noticed that you've gotten...closer."

"Very astute, Master Samwise." I bend to pick up a good sized log. "But what of it?"

"I don't trust you." Well, that wasn't a surprise. I already knew that. But it was a bit off-topic. I wonder what it has to do with anything.

I laugh. "I'd be surprised if you did." I pick up another log.

"Just let me finish. I know that you intend to go to Minas Tirith with Boromir. I also know that Frodo's in love with you. He'll go where you go, no matter the consequences. And we both know that can't happen."

I'm startled by the hobbit's intelligent and heart-breaking judgment. He's right, of course. I'd preferred not to think about our relationship and the Quest in conjunction. They'd seemed like completely separate matters until this very moment.

"You're right." I stop. Turn to face him. "You're right. But Sam, what am I to do?" I'm suddenly lost. My decisions don't seem that great anymore. I don't like the way I've played my cards. I don't like the fact that I've been backed into a metaphorical corner. But it's too late for all of that now. And I don't know what to do now that I've reached my inevitable dead-end.

"Let him go." He says simply. Like it should've been obvious to anyone. Well, it isn't obvious to me. I don't understand how I can 'let him go'. And if he's suggesting what I think he is, I don't think I even _can. _

I'm sure I look as thunderstruck as I feel. "How?" I ask him. My voice sounds drier and hoarser than it did in my head.

"You know what you have to do. Me telling you isn't going to make it any easier. For either of you." Sam says calmly. And then he continues on, gathering firewood as he goes. I stand stock still for a moment, long enough for him to get a decent ways away from me. Only just realizing that we should stick together, I chase after him.

We don't say anything else to one another, but when we return to camp, he gives me a meaningful look, and I am troubled as Frodo settles in next to me. There was nothing that I wouldn't do to keep close to him. Except that now I know what I _must_ do, and I think it might kill me, if I allow myself to think about it.

As the fire roars up, talk among the others increases. They're upbeat, despite the weather. Frodo leans up and whispers in my ear. "I missed you," he says, his warm breath tickling in the most delicious way. All dark thoughts are pushed immediately from my mind.

"I was only gone for a few moments." I whisper back, turning to face him. His sincere blue eyes catch me by surprise, just like they always do.

"It was too long. Don't leave me again," he says, halfway playful and halfway serious.

"I won't," I say and my heart and soul scream at the lie. I tuck him close to me, his head fitting under my chin. He nestles close, and though I catch sidelong glances from the fellowship, no one comments.

"I love you," he says.

"I love you," I say.

I stare into the fire. It's times like these when I hate Sam.

***

Frodo moans and his eyes roll back into his head. I quickly clamp my hand over his mouth, though I myself am having trouble keeping quiet. I slide the rest of the way into him, feeling his heat surround me. Bliss.

I forget about everything when I'm with him like this. The Ring, my decisions, the loss of Gandalf, Arwen, everything. There is nothing else when we're making love and our eyes meet. Nothing but pure heat and friction and love and sweat and come. Perfect.

I gather his torso in my arms, pulling him closer as we rock together. My mouth is slightly open, which I don't realize until Frodo caresses my lips with his soft hands. I suckle one gently, and makes a low sound that I don't stifle this time. The rest of our companions are sleeping not far away, with naught between us but space and blankets.

Frodo leans in and kisses my neck, biting softly and my eyes snap open as I come. He shudders, and I feel love coursing through me as his hot seed spills across our bellies. 

I cannot even imagine being without him. But Emyn Muil draws near, and my decision will soon come into effect. I use a corner of our blanket to wipe away the mess on both our bellies. He smiles lazily at me. So sweet. So perfect. So...

Every moment seems more precious, more vibrantly accented now that I know they're numbered. 

***

Orcs. Thousands upon thousands of foul creatures rising up from the gloom, mouths agape in silent and not-so-silent screams, filled with hatred for those who are not like them. Jagged rows of teeth fill their mouths, ragged and made to tear flesh and cause pain. Black skin gives off a rotting stench that makes me gag. Their yellow eyes burn with a raging fever pitch, reminiscent of insanity. They want to kill. They want to kill us all, for their own amusement.

I reach for my sword, but it's not there. Momentary panic grips me that I should have lost something so very, very precious, perhaps even given it over to the enemy. 

I'm alone. I don't remember, but somehow I've been separated from the group. I hear a familiar voice calling to me, pleading. Across the void a face flits for a moment, lost and ghostly, but before I can place it, it dissipates into shadow. A whisper for Him rises and dies on my lips unspoken. He has gone away, and it is better, because I would not want Him to be here.

I try to move quietly. I don't know where I should go, though. The orcs surround me, but don't seem to notice me. Their ghastly eyes have been fixed upon something else, and now they claw towards it, ripping each other to shreds with violent claws in the attempt to make it there first. Some are somehow joined together, but this does not stop them from tearing at each other. A grotesque maelstrom of deformed limbs wends its way towards something out of my line of sight, and I stand dumb and unable to do anything.

Finally, though my feet are leaden, I press myself forward to see what could have attracted their collective attention. I catch a glimpse of something. Small. With pale skin. Not a something, then. A someone. A familiar someone.

A sudden scream claws its way out of my throat and I am running, running as fast as I can though I know there is no way I can be in time. He will be dead by the time I get there. My muscles fail me and though I want more than anything to keep going, I find I don't have the strength to move. I fall to my knees and the orcs swarm around me, ignoring me, rushing past me like a river.

A thin wail floats up, quickly drowned by the harsh shrieks of the orcs. Despair floods my every sense and I lay down and curl up into a ball. I can't save Him. I can't get near Him. He will die and I will be here, useless and unarmed, and close enough to hear his screams.

"_Aragorn_. _Aragorn. Please help me. Please don't let me die. Please..." _His voice comes clearly to me in my mind. Agony tears through me and I try to stand again. Try so hard that I almost make it before sheer pain drives me down, back to the ground.

A burst of flame illuminates the hunched backs of the orcs and the small, struggling form of Frodo. An eye in the distance, growing nearer. I know what it means. Death. Death and pain and corruption to me and all of us.

"_Aragorn_," Frodo screams, and the flames devour him.

***

I move from sleep to wakefullness quickly and fully. In an instant, I am awake and alert, and ready to spring to my feet and fight. Frodo drowses next to me, and it takes me only a few moments to realize that nothing's really wrong and that the feeling of danger and despair is only a feeling left over from that horrific dream. Frodo is alive. Frodo is fine. He's safe.

But for how long?

Though I know it was only a dream, it was too close to reality for my taste. The scene painted in my mind's eye might happen someday, someday soon, and the thought fills me with dread. I can taste the bitterness of fear on my tongue. My fear.

I've never feared orcs. They're animals. Wild beasts that are neither particularly intelligent or fearsome, if one knows how to deal with them.

But that is not the case now. I see them now un-jaded. Their sharp blades and the way they could cleave skin and muscle and bone from a body. From Frodo's body. They could kill him. Not even they. Just one. If one orc got a moment alone with him, he would die. 

It would be so easy to let him down.

Especially now that we draw closer and closer to the heart of danger. We've been dogged by our enemies the entire quest, but it can get nothing but worse. If Frodo goes into Mordor as he surely will...

I gather him close to me, press my face into his curls as silent tears course down my face. I blink in surprise. I never cry.

But the feeling of hopelessness overwhelms me and I can't help it.

***

We have reached Emyn Muil. Everyone is on edge, and somewhere in the backs of our minds, I know we all feel the danger. The overwhelming, mindless fear that threatens to overtake us all is shoved roughly down and replaced with short tempers and sharp tongues.

Even I am nervous and jittery, maybe more so than the rest. The fellowship will break soon. I can feel it in my bones. We must all part ways, and I know that many of us will not survive to see each other again.

We've made camp, and Gimli sits against a rock, smoking a pipe. Legolas pulls me aside to warn me of the shadowy enemy that draws near. It seems a bit redundant to me. But I nod my head absently. For I've noticed something else. Boromir and Frodo are both missing. I would not say anything to Legolas, but I've noticed that the Man has been acting strangely, recently. More withdrawn. Quiet. And the looks he's been giving Frodo...

And now they are both missing. Quickly, I jump to my feet. "Frodo! Where is Frodo?" All of the hobbits look confused, and Sam looks worried. Even Gimli slowly gets to his feet, his thick brow creased in a frown.

Without waiting for an answer, I bound off into the woods. At first I have no definite plan, only dashing off in a random direction. But as I get farther from camp, I hear cries and the sounds of a struggle. No...I cannot be too late.

I curse myself even as I force myself to run faster. But when I enter the clearing where the sounds have been coming from, I find no one. I am almost ready to believe that it was in my mind, when I notice the churned up leaves and dropped firewood. There has been a struggle, indeed, but it is over now. Where Frodo and Boromir have gone, I don't know.

I move to the site of the disturbance, and carefully read the tracks. A small someone has torn out of here with great haste. Frodo. 

Ignoring the other set of tracks, I head straight off after him. Boromir will have to fend for himself. My duty is first and foremost to Frodo, and Frodo alone.

I find him at the seat of Amon Hen. Laying on the ground, looking at me with blue eyes large and frightened like a rabbit's. It takes me a moment to realize that he is looking straight at me, and that the fear has not dissipated at all. My heart bleeds. He is afraid of me.

"Frodo." I plead, taking a step towards him. He scrambles away. "Frodo," I say, "Why are you afraid?"

He stands and backs farther away. "You want it too," he whispers. His eye catches mine and a sudden flash of myself and the scene at Lorien comes to mind. I tremble.

"No, Frodo. It is yours to bear." I say, and my voice is unsteady. Already a worse vision has presented itself to me, of myself taking it without a thought for him, leaving him stripped and alone on the ground. Myself, the wielder of the greatest power in Middle Earth, commanding armies of all the races, with Frodo by my side. A hundred different possibilities present themselves to me, each one with different things that I want, different ways of getting them. One thing remains the same. In order to get there, I would have to take the Ring. Take it from Frodo. A seemingly small price to pay.

"Is it? Would you take it if I offered?" He pulls the chain from his neck and holds the golden thing in his hand, nestled in the silver links of its chain. My hand trembles and I walk forward until I am close, very close. His scent intoxicates me. I could relieve him of this burden, take away his troubles, his worries. His danger.

My hand hovers over his, so close I can feel the heat from it. And then I place my hand on his, and close it for him, the Ring safely tucked inside. Now I understand. I finally understand what I must do. 

"I love you, Frodo, and I would have followed you to the end. If you asked it of me, I would have thrown myself into the fires of Mount Doom itself for you. But there is no use for it now." A soft blue glow emanates from his hip. Orcs. They have come. "Go. There is danger here. Go, and do not stop."

I turn from him and draw my sword. My path is clear, and I finally know what to do to follow it. I don't look back, but I hear his scuffling feet as he runs. I know that I will not see him again.

So I turn to my enemies with a single-minded ferocity and devote everything I have into beheading and destroying the vile creatures. But before I am thrown into battle, I think of Frodo. _Run fast my love, and don't look back. And above all, come back to me._

****

THE END


	10. Epilogue

Legolas felt a familiar tingling sense at the base of his spine. The one that meant danger was near. But when he looked to Boromir for comfort, the Man would not answer him, but with harsh kisses and rough handclasps. Nothing to assuage his growing sense of dread.

When Aragorn discovered that both Boromir and Frodo were missing, he went into a kind of panic. Legolas thought he could understand, even if only slightly. The Man and the hobbit had grown so close over the past weeks, he would have been surprised if Aragorn had not panicked.

He himself was only slightly worried. Boromir would never do anything to harm the hobbit. This he knew with the blind certainty of new love.

Aragorn flew into the forest on wings of fear. Sam wanted to leave after him, but Gimli gently stopped him. "No, Master Samwise. Aragorn will take care of it. You just stay here and finish parceling out the vittles."

Sam glared at him, but sat back down. Legolas knew that the instant Gimli's back was turned, Sam would dash off into the forest in search of his master. The bond between those two was like nothing he'd ever seen in all of his years, and he knew without a doubt that Sam would willingly leap into the jaws of death itself if it could save Frodo.

But Legolas began to worry when the feeling of wrongness intensified, and his keen elven ears caught slight rustling in the bushes. Far off, too slight to be counted as anything, but the Elf was already on edge.

He stood up and moved his feet uneasily. After a moment, with a glance to Gimli assuring that he would keep the hobbits in line, he himself dashed off into the forest in search of the two missing members of the fellowship.

He did not have far to go. He found Boromir kneeling down in the leaves of a small clearing, sobbing with all his heart. 

Wasting no time, Legolas was to his side and kneeling next to him in no time. "Boromir. Boromir, my love, what is wrong?" The Man looked up at him through his hair with eyes filled with shame. A sinking dread manifested itself in Legolas's stomach.

"Frodo. Frodo. Where is he? Is he safe?"

"I am sorry, Boromir. I don't know. Aragorn has gone to fetch him, but I assume he is all right." Boromir collapsed with relief into Legolas' arms. The sobs continued, though, quite perplexing on a grown warrior such as Boromir. 

"But what's wrong, Boromir? What ails you so as to bring you to tears?"

Staring at the ground, Boromir spoke. "The Ring. I tried to take it from him. I-" His voice broke, and he pulled away from Legolas, keeping his face turned down. Humiliation overcame the big warrior and he hung his head, refusing to meet Legolas' eyes.

It hit Legolas, at this odd moment, how ephemeral mortals were. Evanescent and fleeting in all things. In an eye-blink the world was turned upside down and their personalities twisted and ruined in ways so as to be unrecognizable. And he should have known. 

He stayed his distance from Boromir. He couldn't bring himself to feign comforting. Because in the end, it was empty and pointless, and really, just irritatingly insincere. Boromir had shown his weakness. Shown it and failed to control himself in moments that Legolas hadn't even known existed. 

He did love Boromir. He loved him as he loved the beauty of a meadow in the fresh spring morning. But morning turns to day, and it was time for him to leave.

Well, almost.

He reached out to tilt Boromir's chin up so that their eyes met. In them, he found a hunted and scared thing, almost out of his mind with grief, lust, and shame. He shivered. "Boromir, I--"

The first arrow zinged past his head. Quick as the wind, he'd whipped out his bow and arrow and was ready to shoot.

He took out the first orc he saw, the one attacking directly from behind Boromir. It gave a gurgling sound and fell to the ground, dead. More swarmed up to take his place.

Boromir turned sluggishly and drew his sword. Legolas knew, by his demeanor and actions, and the simple hopelessness in his eyes, that he would not survive this battle. And he accepted it with the grace that any immortal must accept the passing of things. Fall fades to winter, and winter gives way to spring. He grasped Boromir's hand once, not wishing to have him taken, but knowing it must be.

And then he was swept up into the raging whirlwind of battle.

***

Boromir fought long and hard. He refused to have this last dignity taken from him. He, too, knew it was not likely that he would survive this battle. And part of him didn't want to.

But if he was to go down, he would go down fighting to the last. Fighting to save Legolas, and Gimli. Aragorn, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin. They all deserved to reap what he could give. He'd betrayed them all with his act of greed, and though he could never repay any of them, he could help ensure that they could continue on, even when he was no longer strong enough to do so.

Somehow he'd been separated from Legolas by the intervening orcs. But still, he fought on. Hewing and hacking with his broadsword, not even sure what end he was fighting for anymore, just going through the motions. Feint, swing, parry, thrust. Don't get hit and don't go down.

At some point he was aware of a darker presence than the others. Obeying his own rules, he dispatched the orcs surrounding him, ending the most immediate threat before this new one got any closer.

He didn't get a chance to turn and meet this enemy before an arrow was launched and struck him in the chest. A deep rasp of breath as he collected himself. _Can't die yet. So much left to do. DON'T GO DOWN. _He dragged himself back up to his feet, and with a torturous movement ran an attacking orc through on his sword. _Keep going. Don't stop. Can't stop._

A zing of the bowstring and another arrow thudded into his chest. He gasped in a sharp breath and fell to his knees. _NO!_ With monumental effort he pushed himself back up, and with a weak yell, beheaded the next orc.

The third arrow was his undoing. It brought him back to his knees, and this time, he knew that no amount of willpower could force his treacherous body back to its feet. He knelt there helplessly, robbed of his last shred of honor and dignity as the enemy rushed past him, ignoring him.

He heard dimly, as through a waterfall, the sound of Merry and Pippin screaming for help. "No," he breathed weakly. Blood was already filling his lungs, and it was becoming hard to breathe. "No..."

The monstrous Uruk who'd shot him came behind all the others, and stood in front of Boromir, who could only look up with hatred on the face of his executioner. He growled and drew back his arrow, the point aimed squarely between Boromir's eyes. Through his fear, Boromir refused to close his eyes for the moment when the final stroke fell. 

It never did. There was the twang of a bowstring, but Boromir watched with wide, pain-filled eyes as the Uruk staggered, with an elven arrow sticking out of his neck. He roared and turned to face his new, able-bodied opponent.

Legolas drew his long knives and struck first, whirling and slashing quickly, before his slower opponent could strike back. Blond hair and bright knives shone in the sunlight, performing this deadly dance while Boromir watched. He toppled backwards, groaning when he hit the ground and jostled the arrows, damaging more of his torn body. His blood leaked out onto the ground and leaves. He reached a hand up to try and pull out an arrow. It was shaking and pale.

A silver cry rang out on the air. Boromir winced. He couldn't see the fight anymore, couldn't even lift his head. So he lay there and stared up at the sky, his vision fading in and out. _Please hurry Legolas._ The clash of metal sounded not far away.

It took him awhile to realize when it was all silent. He blinked once to clear away the spots, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Legolas coming toward him. There was a deep gash across one cheek, and blood was pouring from it and dripping down his face. But to Boromir, he looked beautiful.

He knelt beside Boromir's fallen form. His long hair brushed Boromir's face. "You came."

"I'm so sorry, melanin. So sorry." A single tear spilled from the Elf's eye and trailed down his face.

"They took...they took the little ones. You have....have to....have to save them." Boromir was having trouble remembering what he needed to say. There was so much of it and so little time. He was so tired.

"I'm sorry." Two words that summed it up. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the thick blood choked him and spilled from the corners of his mouth. _I love you_, he'd wanted to say, but the words couldn't, wouldn't form. He looked into Legolas's immortal blue eyes, and knew there was no need.

He gave a great, rasping, wet cough, and was still.

Legolas felt the tears slide down his face, and he gently closed sightless eyes. He kissed Boromir's forehead, and then stood.

He turned to face Gimli and Aragorn, both of whom stood a respectful distance away at the edge of the clearing. "Come. There is much to be done, and we must be quick about it."

***

The crash of the waterfalls close by were deafening to Legolas as they lowered Boromir's still form into one of the boats and placed his shield across his chest and his sword in his hands.

Aragorn, too, looked sad, though his eyes were firmly fixed on the opposite shore, where if he imagined well enough, the phantom forms of two hobbits could still be seen fleeing through the trees. To safety or to death, he could not know.

The sound of the waterfalls did not change when the little boat reached the edge and crashed over.

Looking around him, Gimli could not help but feel that they had failed at some monumental task, and the three of them alone were left standing. He shook off the feeling of dread and prepared to charge across the river after the Ringbearer and his companion.

Seeing the look on his face, Aragorn shook his head. "No, Gimli. Frodo has made his choice. We must let him go." There was a tiredness in his voice, a sort of worn quality that distracted Gimli and gave Legolas cause for great sadness.

As they gathered up what things they would need, Legolas walked over to his old friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do not worry, Estel. Frodo will return. You will see your love again." Unspoken was the '_but I will not'_. Legolas cast a glance toward the Rauros falls, and then grabbed his pack.

"Come!" Aragorn said, with enthusiasm that seemed almost sincere. "Our part in the fight is not yet over, and we cannot lose hope now."


End file.
